In Loving Memory of the Manchester's victims;
May the Love be in full blowth again.
.
In boroughs new, where power resides, Stroll masters bold, through city tides. Cold blood coursing, an Almighty tale, Unveiling God in a city frail.
To scholars young in metropolis grand, A holy mission, a sacred stand. To London, D.C., and Rome they sail, Medieval blades with a blood-stained trail.
Swords aloft, in resurrected heads, Furious paws, where darkness spreads. A message strong, in Hell's embrace, In flames of wrath, a code takes place.
Abaddon's city, they seek to sway, With sheened blades from an ancient day. Rusted swords now gleam anew, In Abaddon's grip, a fix they pursue.
***
Round One
Upon London Bridge, post the great war's ghostly end, Eliot's gaze blend with blood' taste. 'Neath winter's dawn, 'neath a brown fog's embrace, A throng o'er the Bridge, in somber pace. A realistic query took hold of his head, Did death, in silent echo, myriad souls unfold?' Worked so gently on us?
Nay, sire, death is sound and fury,:Driven by the disciples of Devil, A coloured track ripping the rhythmic moving of the Londoners. The rehearse their mission, In In the sight of Scotland Yard's vigilant gaze,
Pity:Guardian armed with clubs, in the city's daze.
In this sordid skirmish at London's core, What discourse, royal historians implore?
***
Round Two. (Hope never happens.)
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