Battle

Ten thousand of the horde couldn't afford to deny the lord any longer
So as they marched through cream colored streams, their muscles so lean they pondered the path of the warmonger
To whom the pledged frightened obedience in the form of their swords
There womb was a ledge of light and they saw the sense in the scorn of that chord
Of buzzing hope, that had become a joke amongst the ranks
Does he tote that mace and chain because he is yoked or to emphasize thanks
Toward the general of gravel who has march so long even he has forgotten, the rotten roots of their effort, as if he and the fleas of fantasy he commands have digressed into more
By destroying themselves, they've become blessed to the core.