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