And sap their entrails through your maws.
Germ of corruption, speed ye fast.
A thing is rising to its last;
For greedy claws to grip around,
And carry back to that mouldy mound.
Spawn of the cellars, get ye back
To gulfs of darkness where no track,
Can trace you to that worming brood;
Or toss your bones in darkened mood.
Seed of the tombstone, floating black,