I might as well be an orphan if everyone already thinks I am one.
I’m unwounded by rocks, studs, and leather.
My beard is fringed by filth that cometh my mouth: vomit, beer and vulgar.
I am two parts ov solid stoned. Mold and stitching holds this torn together.
Rained upon by lachrymose set as it darkens the skies and stirs up a war.
Slaughter ov misfortune and blood drenched sorrow to gaze upon the northern plague :grief, dismal.
In Return an offering to Dionysius for endless indulgence upon my wicked growth in battle.