Skin, Shin, Boil & Thin
Leather trim and roughage bin
The monster weaves
And then he cleaves
Reaping father and son
His slaughters never done
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Halt, says a gate guard
Before he is scarred
But he never sees the blade
Or the red line it made
For he's already gone
Harvested for his brawn
The dark figure gives a pause
Scratching a long chin with sharp claws
Taking arms from a dwarf
Then giving a twist and a morph
A terrifying creature takes shape
Another in the army of mistakes
Atop a mountain of bones
There lies a pale throne
Upon which perches
The heretic of all churches
It's the Flesh-crafter Elf
An emaciated self