To Rot
Pudge, the butcher
His bloodstained cleavers in hunger clanged together,
Across the fields of endless carnage in this cold weather.
A corpulent figure with a crow on his back,
His arms swung heavy with flesh heaps to go stack.
They say he was a once a quiet butcher’s son,
The stench of flesh had once made him run,
“To Rot… To Rot… To Rot!” his father would say,
His blade cold on the boy’s chest if he wouldn’t stay.
The boy made a pact with a cursed fowl.
They concocted a plan filthy and foul.
First swooped down did the feathered fiend,
As the boy hid with his blades freshly cleaned.
Its beak tore apart the butcher’s eyes.
The boy dashed out and severed his thighs.
“To Rot…” he said with a sinister smile,
“To Rot!” he screamed at the dismembered pile.
Pudge, the butcher took off on his feet,
In search of the realm’s very freshest meat.
Skin and muscle, his meat hook has torn,
For man nor beast did he ever mourn.
Of men of the past and men of the future,
Some fear the reaper, but all fear the butcher.
