The great beast will whip and lash and rip and wrath and writhe and wink and stumble and drink, and troubling to keep him upright as beacon when downright defeated, his creed will waver and hands shake loose and stuff himself he will for the good of the goose, and lumbering and roaring and showing the soft tummy of the old-tiger-come-young, once he begins to sense the revolt in his veins lean to run, devour himself from inside out rotted from core and straddled by doubt, at last he come to his chin-first humf where for miles can be heard the the thumping wumf, then his ground shaketh no more and the culture and mad and the hungry and sad will eat his bones in war, and sharpen their teeth and invite vampires and a blood-thirst arise and a craze can be seen in the corners of their their eyes, and when he’s through and picked and forked and pricked and the spirit of the thing digested, perhaps in the night after the feast on the beast in their wildest technicolor dreams, a grief will visit in the form of pie and digested it lax the wrinkle in their savaging eyes and soften the heart of the pillaging crew with respect for the hole where the light came through.
But he will have gone and never again––for a thousand years, they shall live in the feast of their making.