Jagged peaks outbled, sated fangs of aged beasts,
N' on busy hamlet lay, so obscured all plots of man.
Ire frothed as frigid waves, n' prate the folk of feasts,
N' gilded machinic splendor, at saal of foremost clan.
Rallied was the sentiment, that curled serpentine,
Through young n' old, as a poison'd lance,
Through all lowly sinew, n' blood as krill-shot brine.
Order short, a mob inclined, n' tore upon the manse,
There wrest regal sleepers, to grave from downy bed.
Former charge, of wanton use, unquell'd.
N' gallow'd saal's new master, though they be wellfed.
Fortnight's cries of death n' expropriation swell'd,
The thief's purse reaved, no owner in their throes.
What was once the demense of man,
Was naught but fodder for the crows.
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