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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Continuation With ghouls, unlearned, no stone’s unturned to burnish blame with Nun’s proud name and leave the midnight sky... scarred. They raise their hats to copy cats in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. While rumours spread amongst the dead, Nun stays the pace with saving grace, and phantoms keep their face...marred. The maggot digs neath twisted twigs in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. In tempests strong, Nun rings the gong but fails to rise in vacant eyes - he palms a one-eyed trump...card. Nun sets her sail, to no avail in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. Nun asks him why a bird can’t fly. His mouth, a rut, replies “tut, tut”, with conscience painted white...tarred. A mushroom mold has taken hold in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. “To fly aloft," he laughed and scoffed “lay bare your breast! I’ll do the rest, I’ll bless you in the church...yard”. The golden rule's contrived for fools in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. He cast the bait and wouldn't wait - once more defied, her wings denied, the Kingfish is a bass...tard. A 'no' said twice must pay the price in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. When day’s undone, and night’s begun, Nun stirs a cup and turns face up; she's feeling that she’s ill...starred. ’Tis such a crime to waste her prime in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. Nun plans to dine with sparkling wine but sips instead a bitter red served with a crystal glass...shard, Behind the bog, beneath the fog in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. Well, minstrels fight beyond the night and demons fete behind the gate, while silence chokes the host...bard. The angel sings with broken wings in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. The webs are spun neath dying sun; and caught ensnared, her flight impaired, Nun’s thoughts are how they’ll die...hard. The puppet people storm the stee- pled FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. And voices wail beyond the pale “The old taboo - it echoes true - Nun’s bound to have her way...barred”. The schemes are strange and minds deranged in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard. Ms.! Cast your nets, but hedge your bets - there are no odds, where purple gods and hungry idle ghosts...spar with nameless gnomes in catacombs in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
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