I awoke to the baying vipers, pouncing upon any-thing that comes to mind, craws sharpened ready to degrade and dissect, mocking of any mousey murmur

They hide amongst the shadows of what's telling of the truth, all too eager for an inquisition or exsuction, I wince at the sight of the supreme beings.

Their parallel positioning of accounts, all for their own amusement, play for me little thing.

And I will sing the tale of a bird's call.