f king Doom
And reach the swoll'n, acrid shoals,
Where stationed Mounts are penciled white
That mark the maw of raging hell,
Till, eyes awake stare at each flame
Unsung and, on boulders that burn,
Peer at two lordly squats in dust
As wenches drink from poisoned well,
'Mid purple sins and naked shame
In Typhon's olpe and churning urn
Of stranded devils, souls and lust.

When earthly homes are tombed in dust,
And Life forsakes geotic shoals;
When midst the tombs of penetence,
When coffins damp, and slimmy clay,
Each Lordly Helm is tossed in trust
To spiral vaults from plasmic holes,
Convolving cyclones spin him hence
As agate torches light his way.
Unmuttered sighs teem in the air
As structural stars pass him by,
And twisting clouds shape eerie forms
Until he reaches Satan's home.
Unholy visions curse and swear,
Gyte vypers lull each demon's sigh,
Giant Dragons whom no Remorse storms,
Shake fists at opals in a dome.
And Cesspools vext with odours strong
From stifling shard and putrid dung,
'Mid caverns large and Cauldrons deep,
Vile squats in teeming pewter burn;
And shrieking vypers wield a prong
Above a monster, quarter'd hung.
The Tasmanian Devils keep
The sod turn'd in a gyre's urn
That no lost soul can undulate:
Hence seers and sages, tossed in sin,
Rant rubics to each reigning king,
Each glowing pyre is fed with oil
By afreets reared on bottled hate;
Infernal tapers light this Inn
As poisoned vapours to us cling;
Re-embered beacons on this soil
Flare spastic shadows to each tomb.

In vain we sigh for fleeing grace
Within the pale of turbid dyes!
In vain we look for hope, sweet rest,
Within this crypt of whistling Doom!
When in monastic nights of haze
The battlements retard giant sighs;
When marshalled mists from out the West
Cloak ramparts black with ughly light,
A rubic Soldan rakes each ghaut,
Each sleeping vandal, imp and soul.
No astral eyes laugh from these skies,
No nightingales sing in the night;
A dungeoned curse that villains wrought
Rasp each eternal vault and shoal.
Then one-eyed mongrels split the dyes
Of roaring winds and raging storms,
Dim shapes flee to the haunts of gore,--
Each Cyclopean Dragon's goal!
And groaning cries from maidens fair
Is heard by spectral, gangrel forms,--
The writhing thin is flayed some more!
Its secret sins,--Black dee