Dagon's Altar

When dread shapes walk unlit streets,
In the shadow-hung hours after dusk;
When a noxious wind blows up from the pounding surf,
And nameless shapes writhe and splash,
Betwixt the black, moonless waves,
They come forth:
Writhing and loping up the shores,
And through the horror-haunted shadows,
To squat profanely before the altar of Dagon,
In the temple of that bestial God,
Bleating and squawking wordlessly,
The reeking seawater seeping across,
The polluted, stained tiles,
And trickling into the reeking streets,
Like some foul disease borne,
Out of the womb of that raging sea God,
Whose idol they now regarded with,
Sharp ululations and half-heard shrieks,
In that dread town called Innsmouth,
That sane fishermen shun,
And wise tourists avoid.
Aye, in those dread hours before dusk they come.

And when their insult to sanity has been conveyed,
They return to those self-same, shadow-haunted waves,
And black depths from which they sprang,
To abide with the Deep Ones,
Until their time has come,
To abide with us.
But, that, in time.
Aye, that, in time.
For now we can only abide with horror,
And await that ghastly hour,
When their pollution shall infect,
Some other nameless shore.

But, that, in time.
Aye, that, in time.