Lum Chabot

Rookie - 0 Points (21 July,1992)

Ghastly Company (Visitations From Christmas Past) - Poem by Lum Chabot

In entrails of wycked beast
Prisoners rest, those from the feast
Cantankerous of those debtors,
Who hoped to work for better
Life the wretched knife of strife
Seax swung by blithe as siphes
Prepared by discontented,
To burn houses so splendid on which country depended

Arms were stolen for such benefited vice,
All or non thought of sacrifice
Individuals petty as mice would cause splice
Upon age old tree, now besotted and knotted, the device
Set upon placid France with intents of saviours.

As those people of candid Tiffauges at least
Or those against harem of land further east
Who indulged in ages past in morbid splendors,
Committing carnal vices with the dependers,
Beautiful youth with abundant life,
None of whom old enough to be husband or wife,
The hopes of whom not left unmolested
Nihilistic, necrophilia responsibility was now not ended.

The laws of mother Nature stood rooted, seeds
From him dripped from every branch, his deeds
Far from catholic childrens' needs,
Into nature, as a baker, disgust he kneads,
But as on Bastille, support for him wavered.

And when summer turned red,
Darkness flooded living from the dead.

Old eidolons restless in bed,
Could not hope to raise their heads
Above rooted graves to save
Long rotted lungs betwixt which stave
Was run by Gotterdämerüng,
Evil deeds that could not be undone,
Were rekindled, incendiary ghosts
Preyed upon such gracious hosts.

As nymphetamine once made,
The amphetamine’s in sanguine stream bade
Harems and harlots to in the stream wade,
And carnal desires sustained,
Apparitions in submission to torturous nature.

Ghosts from all centuries plague la presente
And they glide among the living, trés mechant,
In swathe pale white,
What a glorious sight,
Until from inside present boils,
Under stress from inhuman toil
For spirits who’s touch burn,
Sear our insides, now our turn.

I welcome it, unlike every other revolution,
This race needs new evolution,
As those from the grave, have the solution,
This life so full of living pollution,
I welcome them, for the living, the dead grant a favor.

And when summer turned red,
Darkness flooded living from the dead,
Along with lesson living dread.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 12, 2010



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