Sailors alight from blood-hued seas
regaling me with symphonies
of skull and flesh and tragedies…
of lust and murder foul.

They’re welcomed in, those foolish men,
more fiendish brutes than gentlemen.
They chortle-snort at His wretched pen,
a prison of wire and sprowl.

They jest at Him, my death machine.
Their feeble forms are so pristine.
Detach, at once, from the teat you wean!
And quake at the Minion’s howl.

With brutal lash of shiv and flame
He strikes at them with seething bane.
Their souls sent back from whence they came,
and their bodies decay in His jowls.