The end drew nigh, and evil trod the land,
In form of fleshless bones, with gaze of fire,
With blood-red rats, that ranged at their command,
And gnawed strong bricks to sand, to serve their ire.
Who held against the horde was honoured high;
One spoke not such a name, but sang of hope.
For most, to meet the rats meant flee, or die,
And few could run to match the bone-beasts' lope.
In time, the most grew few and heroes died,
Til evil's foes were bones, or made of bone.
The sole survivors crossed the seas, and cried
Despair on each dry continent of stone.
By means most grim, they lived past evil's fall,
Then fell in lands restored, on gallows tall.
Jenkins Rising 