BY DR. AGONSON
In Potter’s field alone at midnight’s toll
the minstrel strums through wicked bitter cold
his dev’lish cords learned by a fiendish hand
to wake the spirits sleeping in this land.
They rise, his spooks, the dead forgotten here,
with eerie screams unheard by mortal ear,
and in descending spirals fly about
the earth where flesh corrupted now does sprout.
The empty corpses rise above the dust,
decayed to bone, the desiccated husks.
Into their bodies, long unused, the shades
enter to be the necromancer’s slaves.
Plays on the song that woke the dead this night;
plays on the tune teaching the dead to fight.
Marshaled in ranks of ten by ten they march,
marshaled to slay the town named The Green Larch.
For there they cursed and mocked as he begged bread,
and hard’nd a heart that once would tears have shed
to see the blood drenched streets that he now bid
his minions flood until all life was rid.
listen to my beautiful voice: