The hacking
Coughing
Death rattle of regression
Is incredibly loud

It feels the slight prickle
Of hairs
On the back of
Its goose pimpled neck

And senses the cold
Touch of curved steel

The reapers blade

It must have its last
Sickly grasp
of the scepter,
Bending neck
With fear and blame

Even the beasts of the field
Sense their own demise.

Have your last cackling
Laugh
Before
We crack the crown

And take what’s always
been ours

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