Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language and violence.
Someone is angry. Like and review (or comment) if you enjoyed this satirical poem. By the way, sorry for publishing the story, I somehow made it unpublished while writing a front note! Only minor details in the poem has changed, and nothing more has happened!
Let's play a fun game
A game of cards!
The loser will drink the mercury
Of Gods' Ichor.
But are you sure you will gamble away,
Will my Dear Brother gamble his life?
Fate has pre-destined the games,
You will never win against my cunning skills.
Call me a crafty serpent,
For all my words will come true.
You will perish and die slowly,
Drinking the silver ichor of the Gods.
Poets and musicians wouldn't save you,
No man will mourn the death of you.
To others, you depict as a saint,
But you are merely a sinner falsely depicted as a saint.
You are a fucked-up dog,
Fallen to the Lowest Hierarchy of Humans.
Don't come near me or speak again,
Lest I kill myself from your hoarse voice.