Sons of Nimrod
Mount the dead animal head
above your mantle stone fireplace
Lay your nude body upon
the grizzly rug of this death skin
Likewise, with safari determination,
you hunt the wooly souls that walk upright —
Talking mammals who don’t bend
Feeling angry bloodlust ... your coffin trophy case
must be carcass filled
Ivory tusks of scarlet trust
is lunar vision, high-caliber revealed
Sons of Nimrod, the mighty hunter
Possessing genetic cunning, you hunt with deadly feline skill
Children of the bow and blade,
your thirst to shed blood can only be sated on a full moon kill
A beastly heart which loves to shoot the arrow,
bulls-eye is the grim, grave marker
Reapers of the predator prize —
eagle claws death clutching the caught sparrow
Sons of Nimrod ...
your mother, the daughter of Belial,
has taught you well:
How to adulteress hunt the precious life
Put the severed heads on sale,
but reserve the best for your crypt cave abode
Looking at the glassy, dead eyes
warms your empty, rapacious soul,
in the tomb winter years of a blood moon night
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