Lingua Mortis Poem by Lucius Sulla

‎'Twas after a long day's squall,
Quaffed, by the hilly shore,
Comes a time, when y'all,
See the sea a little sore,
The sunset eyes are just the tide,
To discard thyself, hear a voice,
'Listen, son! There's room inside,
For a shotgun, and a Rolls Royce.

Take 'em out with Colt and Zeiss,
Not you, but the bullet's got choice,
And if ye feel the call's but a tease,
No song to sing, no rum to rejoice,
No love to succour, no tastes to hide,
No roots to hold, no vision turquoise,
Then, son, there's room inside,
For a shotgun and a Rolls Royce.

Son! Ye tried for a very long time,
Many an age, but did the world change?
Thy sage entreaties art now a crime,
So take flight, or live and derange.
Father hath defined, Mother hath lied,
Thy comrades desert thee, a starry loyce,
D' accord, son, there's room inside,
A shotgun for thee, for them a Rolls Royce?

The longboat awaits thee beneath
That surface of cold reason, baroque,
For those that feel the Devil's teeth
Call on their Id in a forbidden toque,
Start on 'em son, with words of pride,
They are the first to words reprise,
Beckon 'em in, to thy room inside,
For thy shotgun and a Rolls Royce.'