Haven't painted Murkoph in a while. This one's based on something he spouted out a while back. It is not for the sensitive.
The sun's been stabbed and clatters down,
Spattering its gold shit all around.
Now the dying thing's gone to ground
And I hear screams and other sounds.
I think tonight I'll cut the throat
Of the Widow Shreve's billy goat.
She can milk me prick and go to gloat
That she saw the prize hidden 'neath my coat.
Then I'll eat a fat priest's eyes
And if me prick's still on the rise
I'll see if I can't improvise
and fuck his eye-holes ere he dies.
O glorious night; O glorious plot.
Glorious possibilities heavy and hot
Stuck behind my navel in a Gordian knot.
I'll hammer this city's greasy twat.
--Murkoph, poet laureate of Sharteshane
There's a cemetary outside of town where they bury heretics (as opposed to those prescribing to the local religion which dictates the dead be burned) and most treat the cemetary like a trash dump and unload their crap there. Murk finds it an ironic, pleasant spot to camp during the day and would like to show you his knife, weary traveler.