Each equinaut comes hither / thither,
Finding what may frost an eddy of
The river.
The equinaut fell for
You,
Who could harness the fruit of
Imaginarium's hill 'till
We meet at Morta's floating mill.
(After you fall too hard on
The rusty spike mother left in
The yard).
Body will rot but never The Will.
Let us now invite The Chill. . .
Surplus harvest!
Gather the gluttons -
The spoiled, the sluggard, the rotten.
Surplus harvest!
Ye fascists be smitten.
Time is over,
Yer delusion forbidden.
Surplus harvest!
The equinauts summoned -
The acorn, the sunset,
The sickle, the pumpkin.
Cheers to The Chill!
And mushroom The Fallen.
