Moloch: A Chant
He appears where the soaring owl drops it's orb to soil
Shaping sallow flesh made leathery from centuries of toil.
He swings with ball and chain, even if he should miss
He wrecks rock, though he kills his prey not with this.
He feeds on fallen warriors. This facinorous beast
Will gladly slice the abdomen of offered men and feast --
Chewing them alive and spitting them into nether-places
After colour passes from their deadened, embryonic faces.
And though they may rend futile cuts upon his cloudy flesh
He will not die away in any measure while his blood is fresh.
Listen -- there is silence before this ichor has congealed
Then he howls to hellfire, tremoring, and he is healed.