The Witch King

- Squishee Samwise

Out of the shadows he doth come,
With heart so beating like death's drum,
From him so warriors, they must run,
Last calling of the dying sun.

And cross the glades and dying field,
Of whistling wind and of grave's seals,
Rusted mind that will not yeild,
And in small breath, nowt he feels.

And with a whisp of time and space,
And slow clang of blade or mace,
Whose foul scent doth unfix thy face,
And bleed thy soul of living grace.

Like flames on skin and axe on head,
Of, black name that cant be fed,
And to the darkness he is wed,
A servant of the Kings long dead.