As the day draws near that many dread
As making to snap the remaining thread
By which that hangs that is now near to dead
And never was as hearty or as hale
As held the myth that for long did prevail
Because they lifted it with great travail
Who wanted to believe it, terror grows
From sources that the Stupid God well knows
Inasmuch as knowing acts in its repose
And it convulses, squamous, eldritch, foul,
Within the multitudes that are its cowl,
Puppets shaken hard upon its dowel
And joying in the rod applied behind,
Thinking its abuse is acting kind.
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