You hear muffled grunting,
Not in the least perturbed.
His face is that of a wizard
Pointing his haggard fingers.
Getting closer, you hear the sighs
Of a signature in the dank air.
Blithe remarks seemed fortunate
Like golden avenues or trails.
You see stirrups, you manage groans
To be discerned by the lines split.
Seeking to leap out of the railings,
You head right and see a dark
Horse-rider in manliest wear,
Clothes all blackness and strong.
You hear the snort of the hellhound,
And hellish spray of abominable sound
Heading towards the goal called your earlobe.
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