Xi: Ichor Or Blood of Gods

Darest V.C., The voodoo was the ill-omen, Like the Mills bomb of the uniformed; The voodoo was under-stated: Youngsters danced by your stygian microcosm; The voodoo was our ill-omen, A crypt in this forest of pantology! Darest V.C., The tear-gas tattle in the tavern; The uniformed patrol perverting the road; The pestilence of beating rods; The petrifying forcing of the lasses In vaults inside the vault; Are these the few marks Of the venality in the Ichor? Darest V.C., Of course, not these alone! Many are limping: few are walking, And some of the walkers are limping In their inside – Of course, not these alone! We all saw the fallen logs, These logs – darest V.C., Should have been the ready trees In the forest of their ancestors; Of course, not these alone! Many of the stars were lost By the reposition of your sky, And we like one long wood Are the fallen logs of the Ichor! Then – darest V.C., At your kindly instance Some logs were towed to the ready rascals Of the regius horse-pital; Of course, not these alone! Blood of gods gushed freely From these blessed horizons of your rod.