Stones They Throw, ljóð frá 4. maí 2019.

Peace be with them, pride so slow...

problematic runes to give.

With them all the riff will row,

rest there left with pike and shiv.

 

Stones they throw will stay not long

stronger in the winds of change.

Much of that for maidens wrong,

must be from the other range.

 

Not be said in Notre Dame,

natation for deeper wells.

Can not find the clustered âme,

Corn Laws, blights and righteous hells.

 

Quiet man on cornfields yet,

cranes on top from stars that night.

coming up and willful, wet,

waiting for the time so right.

 

Met her at bridemaid's bar.

Bursting at the seams, that near.

Up the pond, the onward gar,

always for the women's tear.

 

Close to love but failed to fly.

Fear of mistakes took them both.

Now they ask it, neither why,

nor just when, oh feel them loath...

 

Older people always knew,

up to go or fall with pride.

Beauty in the game so grue,

getting in the wrought, dry fight.

 

Peace be with them, pride so slow...

problematic runes to give.

With them all the riff will row,

rest there left with pike and shiv.