To the Goblins, to Hastily Brine

Gather ye gnoll-heads while ye may,

Black blood is still a-flying: The severed skull that grins to-day, Soon will be putrifying.

That hateful, searing lamp, the Sun, Will rot the mortal flesh; Already have his rays begun to spoil lopped heads, once fresh.

Those heads are best, which are the first, To be properly treated; The longer left, the worse, and worst The meat when it is eated.

Then be not coy; use well your time, ye butchers expeditious: With skillful salting, smoke and brine,

Their brains are quite delicious.