Wolf’s Head

Tyrone Graham
Jul 25, 2017 · 1 min read

(Thus spake Hereward the Wake)
Back! Back, I say. Take away
Your cloying hands — and keep
My lands safe from decay
Until I return, to plunder
And burn everything in my path
Like God’s wrath, when it is my turn.
Aiee! Aiee!
Brave men will then
Die deaths of glory, and the cowardly
Will be broken by my mercy:
But my unbending knee will break
Before stooping to take your charity.
Sharpen your swords and loosen your words
On my fallen form,
The eye of the storm of carrion-birds;
Do your worst and whet my thirst
For your deaths — it will sustain
My breath with purpose till the last.
I refused to bow then, and refuse now.
My pride has not died, and I make
This vow: I would rather be dead
Than beg for bread of men
Or Heaven, while a wolf’s head.

Other Voices

A sanctuary for orphaned poems and prose.

Tyrone Graham

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In the beginning was the word. And I got paid for it.

Other Voices

A sanctuary for orphaned poems and prose.

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