Admire in putrid glory, our Ancient one, adorned with thorns, forged by the scorned, our blighted being stands tallest, visceral, upright, hooves and broken claws it adores its earnt horns, planted firmly in his black rot belief, Curator of creators, bleak, ritual stained cloak, pungent, choke. Oh tall, cruel lord from a damp uninhabitable rift, I, its pleasure, putrid flesh, my own for its feed, it smells us uneasy, tremor, its gaze starts to shift, for eternity and below it doomed us, enslaved. devout for your will, where is your promised gift. Lord loathing does my penchant obtain me no rest? Our crop rots like the bones of the ones that dared to question, the throats of those little ones swiftly vented, for our rotten king we ask and hold pendants and sacrifice our only children and new females that have still been not entered. yet the crowd thins as fanged mouths grin, absent is your chant and spell to stop me now, where are your tribal spirits and rainforest dwellers of the old song. They are not here to stop me, I am not here to be stopped. I beg you, oh unkind one, please help them with daggers to take me far from here. I offer my neck from a ground where beasts of the flesh are gone, skeletal laid bare, now our view is barren and desolate desperate in displeasure, the way through with the knife, the path with the blade, the land is their skin, now the air is their flesh, I’m starving for breath.
I beg you priest for the promised rest