They dance, they quither, they roam and wither.
They dingle your spine, they tingle your wine.
They rip out your throat, not leaving a note
of the moaning sadness from all your madness.
They inspect your feet taking out all the meat.
Not leaving a crumb from all the rum.
They'll think and they'll drink for the next unlucky fink
To stumble apon this cave beyond.
The End
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