by Nick Gisburne
His potion sears the surface of my throat
Malignant toxins twist like coiling steam
The necromancer’s eyes are dark, remote
They scan the sacred runes as though they dream
A nest of squirming vipers fills my jaw
Voracious serpents, ravenous for flesh
The spell’s elixir animates them more
They burrow deep, in search of food more fresh
The narrow span of time before I die
Can yet be lengthened with an ancient drug
Injected with a bodkin through the eye
His pincers reach within my throat and tug
The snakes are shrivelled, impotent, and dead
This dentist is the one I always dread
