Knodr
June 30th, 2004, 2:13pm
Laying before my dark throne you are battered and bruised.
What, dear child, made you think that I can be used?
I will not stand for this. There is something amiss.
You frail little girl cannot run from me.
Wherever you go I will see.
A child of eighteen should know
what happens when you throw
your soul to the white skinned Drow.
You seemed to have forgotten
the tales that your grandfather taught
under the apple tree of rot!
Laying before my evil thrown you are bruised and broken.
What, dear child, made you think that it is worth a small token?
I cannot stand your bleeding face. By tonight you will be in your place.
You frail little girl cannot hide for long.
Soon you shall be inticed by my song.
A child of eighteen should know
what happens when you throw
your soul to the white skinned Drow.
You seemed to have forgotten
the tales that your grandfather taught
under the apple tree of rot!
Laying before my hellish thrown you are broken and crushed!
What, dear child, makes your souls so violent that all you must do is blush?
I cannot stand your scarred figure. Almost makes me sad knowing I did this to you, Lunure.
You frial little girl has no reason to cry.
By the end of the morning no one will know that you are soon to die.
What, dear child, made you think that I can be used?
I will not stand for this. There is something amiss.
You frail little girl cannot run from me.
Wherever you go I will see.
A child of eighteen should know
what happens when you throw
your soul to the white skinned Drow.
You seemed to have forgotten
the tales that your grandfather taught
under the apple tree of rot!
Laying before my evil thrown you are bruised and broken.
What, dear child, made you think that it is worth a small token?
I cannot stand your bleeding face. By tonight you will be in your place.
You frail little girl cannot hide for long.
Soon you shall be inticed by my song.
A child of eighteen should know
what happens when you throw
your soul to the white skinned Drow.
You seemed to have forgotten
the tales that your grandfather taught
under the apple tree of rot!
Laying before my hellish thrown you are broken and crushed!
What, dear child, makes your souls so violent that all you must do is blush?
I cannot stand your scarred figure. Almost makes me sad knowing I did this to you, Lunure.
You frial little girl has no reason to cry.
By the end of the morning no one will know that you are soon to die.