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 run 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 crack 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 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