The Scythe Piper

When the night no longer howls
and the summer's draft dies down,
The pied piper whistles a tune of times now
where mice are led like fowls
into the dark abyss like ghouls.

Night whistles a tune of melacholy
lamenting the fate of whom proclaims holy
the canivourous devourers who murders so innocently
the greedy innocent who devours so blindly.
The scythe piper propagating so holy.