They keep their men locked up in mangers
devouring snow and copper threads
Medieval smiths forge crimson sabers
to slay the lovers in their beds.

They warm their tongues with yarns of folklore
while naked ushers slake their lust.
Their sodden beards, infused in stupor,
abrade a fallen star to dust.

Celtic warrior, why must you weep?
The stars have placed him in your fate.
Silent troubadour, you cannot see;
he roams this earth without restraint.

A stag cries DEATH in muted bellows
as spines destroy its amber heart.
The night demands its callous willows
to tear the waning light apart.

Their daggers slit the nape asunder,
the brittle antlers turned to sand.
Its vessels hum like distant thunder
yet they still taint their squalid hands.

Bard of ancient times, your quiet tears
shall not return what time has cast.
Faithless chevalier, dispel your fears
for men of nerve know hope dies last.