I'd like some to respond to this with more than "It's good." You can say it eats tin cans if you like, I'll still like it. Please be critical. It was written for an alliteration and rhyme competition on Gaia and I didn't win. Anyways:
Right hands rest on rather sapphire scabbards.
Those that sheathe our swords.
Our military might stretches out into the night
And our battle cries rise like the fire that hides inside of our wive's sighs.
The peasants are pillaged and the beggars are beaten.
The women are ruined and their children are eaten.
Our monstrous men seek only to win.
Our monstrous men sell their souls to sin.
Our monstrous men make mates of merchant-saints.
And our monstrous men covet killing their kindred.
Hours and hours of deafening din until
Dawn diminishes the energetic skirmishes.
Then the soldiers, sleep-deprived, slump downwards
And the army advances slowly through the snow--
Heels digging deep in soft soil, lugging unloveable soul-luggage.
The tyrannical train amasses allies as it petrifies the valley.
After five years without food, five years of ferocious fighting,
Each undead soldier, heavy as lead, is as steadfast as a boulder.
Our flesh has slid off of our bones.
And our wives happily weep like wilting willows
With word that we, their husbands, head home.
