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 moss

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

The 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 catalogue 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