Old black tusks ripped off of the beast at the bank of the swamp
And carved into statues of arthritic gods
Or the handles of blunt swords that you'll one day ruin upon,
With your eyes covered in miss

Shot down in its sleep,
The big game of the world wide garbage heap

You mounted its head on your wall The prize?
Hollowed out eyes, mold in the cracks of its skull
The fur is matted with blood and its tongue wet with mother's milk

Gates opened wide and bedlam came
Wise men were forced into a layman's trade
With nothing but time, chaos reigns
A great quiet has followed you to here
A blustering wind with nothing of worth in its heart or hands
Your legacy is "A dull catalog of common things"
You've never even seen the blood you've drawn
Or looked in the eyes
Of the kill you claim was yours before taking your picture with it