ATTILA THE HUN

by parker-c-penne

Published March 15, 2007

Courtly to dishonour,
A fief of fond earned rye.

Hindrance to the crying fields
Where doth I heard him die.

I've seen the wildness of the Hun.
The hypocricy of his lie.

Dig deep into the dying shame.
The coroner will pry.

The green candle still burns.

Comments & reviews · 3
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Alginon Comment
Alginon commented Comment · Mar 15, 2007

Awsome poem!

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parker-c-penne
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parker-c-penne commented Comment · Mar 15, 2007

Please comment!

Yours,
E.M. Millington Synge aka P. C. Penne



When she transformed into a butterfly, the caterpillars spoke not of her beauty, but of her weirdness. They wanted her to change back into what she always had been. But she had wings.
— Dean Jackson