Hark now do you hear the wind whistle?
Like crunching leaves and decaying thistle.
Upon a lonely ridge lungs fill with air,
Releasing course yammerings through fangs bare.
Soon rises our symbol quite bold,
Flush of blood upon faces bold.
Writhing forms plead at the gate,
Throw open bolts and laugh at fate
Let fear blossom and reason crack,
Count you well this sinister is back.
For now we watch with passing time,
And number well each haunted rhyme.
Call forth each ear to this unsound,
This is a sinister countdown.