In defense of the Walnuts
Broken faces, scalped down skulls,
Is this the reality we’re living in?
I cried out to the enemy,
I sang the clitterchipper song of the cannibals,
I chased them away.
Their gravehard is hollow, skulls on skulls on skulls,
With echoes of ink genocide
Written in bitter dying flesh,
Which mingles dark into the earth.
Cowards! Come out!
Ya’ll may be mostly rats, but you’re also rat bastards!
Face the judgment for what you have done!
There will be no tears for rat bastards,
They have their tears mingled into the pride lands,
Like some sadist’s Lion King.
Simba, you can have all of the lands from west to the east,
But don’t smite the Cherub;
The flaming sword is already here, child.
Is there a back place to turn?
I suggest you move forward, Child;
There is no lukewarm answer.
There may be a Cross,
And a subtle breaking of bones in the days to come,
But the GREATEST I told you so,
Was always three little words;
Turn back, Child.
The greatest I told you so is in three other words,
They sound a little sweeter, I’m told.
You haven’t told me;
I just have fragmented Gethsemane and Walnut skulls for company.
Well, so be it Child.
Don’t say I didn’t told you so.
I didn’t say it; but then neither did you.
(I love you so)
I guess that’s four words.