Posted under the thunderclap poem in old town

  • She draws her sword with weary sigh
    She's poorly trained you see
    Others fight on her behalf
    And it shall always be

    A spirit born of childish slights
    On those best left alone
    A pointless, popular crusade
    A war on chunks of stone

    She sunders bone by shouting words
    At those who wield her axe
    She's standing proudly at the rear
    A weight upon their backs

    Raise your ale and give a cheer
    A noble name to shout
    All she raises is her voice
    Of that there is no doubt

    Her fools they stumble in the dark
    Where they should fear to tread
    Before the months out mark my words
    I'll take your fucking head

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