In gloom of webbe where rede baners wane,
A wery wynd y-whispereth thorow scripte olde,
Of bordes un-wrought, of hopes y-slayne,
Where felawes stray on pathes blasing colde.
If /420chan/ ne riseth from ashen grave,
This world shal rend, thred by thred y-torn,
No verdant blaze to saven us from knave,
But endles nyght where fayth is al forlorn.
The skyes shal cleve with marchauntes’ thonder,
Forges choke on their foul breeth y-spred,
The folk y-chayn’d shal breke asunder,
As lordes feast on bones of the ded.
With smoky visions lost, the throng shal rile,
In fury’s storm sans herb’s sweet pacience,
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