Into the tavern,
surrounded by slattern
you sit down and wait.
Gluttenist bastards surround,
like hords,
they ask if you'd like a drink.
Caring aside,
you accept the gift;
pushing the poison a drift.
The hords evade,
I hate this day,
shrink into the slade.
Dotting my eyes with poison
the hords begin to die,
and why?
Knowing the reason,
you leave yourself; mutter
ich hasst du, Scheide.
I got tired of waiting for a challenge, Jules :P, so here is one for you. Using the following words, and
not passing 70, you must complete your art.
Words:
tavern, surround, glutten, hord, drift, slade, dot, die, reason, mutter, Scheide
Tags: Ethrad Poem Ich Hasst Du Challenge
