Deeds of deathly dexterity

Quiet! cry she must, disturb her not,

the benighted sun is down, and the moon creeps

teeth chattering and swollen tongue

she stares at the shattered totem

The night is awake for sussurations

and reducts the incarnate with a slight sharp tap

the night spikes its drink with mercury

and risibly raises a toast to its proclivities

The incarnate sups his ale with hopes of salvation

and foils his foible of salvation.

Quiet! For he broke when he woke

the intangible immutables that he spoke

Soiled and roiled, the totem spoke in melancholy

This ale! This ale! Oh it tastes like divinity!

And sixteen years to the grave, he was found

With tongue swollen, and a parchment of civility

And it read! And it read! “The ale was hearty,

but i oh i was meant not for intoxication,

rather, the slight swound of everyday enervation”