The time is nigh
the gods will make music again
each time,four years apart
its time to dance and/or be gored.
The gods will drum again
music of the deadly feral gong
filth to filth; death to death
the clock-hand draws closer.
Different twists goes the rhythm
some to death in rallies
some to death by assassins
some to the end by rituals.
Four seasons ago they struck their sounds
their drums resonating
from the East of the Northern shores
blown to bits, one after the other.
Last time the gods had their party
children were stolen from the huts
sold to slavery, sold to sex
from the hills the staccato rings.
The gods are wont to drumming
and drum they shall
listen not to the poisonous symphony
lest you be stung or worse.
Of what use is a warning
when fate has wooed ill for some
they hide not from the resonating pulse
in that, they condemn more to mourning.
The gods are making their drums
it never announces for good
and if heed is not taken
at the next s-election, the gods will drum again.