Pretty Child

There was a pretty child,
who in summers very mild,
would upseat and in the growing heat
in aspect grow quite wild;

he would run about the ground,
making strange and eerie sounds,
scale the trees and swarm amongst the bees
and by the fish he'd bound;

he would grow a beard of rock,
rub kitten's tears upon his cock,
smash the knees of all the baby geese
and surge towards the dock;

villages he left in flames,
forests, plateaux, all the same,
and the girls he'd rape, their flesh unfurl
and leave the dead and maimed;

he would run across the world
leaving valleys burnt and curled,
in the cold was seen his vengeance told
by glaciers he hurled;

he crammed mountains in his jaw,
took his sister on all fours,
spat the stones across his mother's bones
and spoiled the greenest shores;

from the ground he fired himself
to an outer-spacial shelf
and with fins he flew in solar winds,
passed by all rocky belts;

he trailed planets in his wake
like some vast, gravitic snake,
to the sun he spun and there he won
his claim to heaven's stake;

he then turned galactic south,
took black holes within his mouth
spat the orbs toward galactic north;
God died this day! he'd shout.

And when walking on the sand
with his mother hand in hand,
he would think how man and child could sink
when left in careless lands.