In the land of Nois Exyts,
the greymen marched through the ashen field.
Through sultry mire and ashen pits
The horde of grey refused to yield.
Their skin was gruff as bark and sand,
And their limbs were tumorous bone.
The greymen went on with bare feet and
galumphed atop the flat of crumbled homes.
Back in the East, they ran
From the insidious, conniving eldratire.
Fallen to another beast, one grey had;
its eyes like orbs of ghastly fire.
As the greymen reached the end
of that winding, murky, musty path,
the oldest one began to portend
of an old and accursed sabbath.
The elder grey proclaimed:
“What is the place to which we wend?
A place with endless ashy rains?
If we stay here, what is to impend?”
“O’ what shall become of us?” they asked
as stately mists parted ways.
And in the red sunlight, corpses basked;
a reminder of times of disarray.
Right then and there, casting aside their purpose,
with claws of steel they ripped and tore
at their fellow greys without remorse.
The dusty air smelt of ashen gore.
In the land of Nois Exyts,
the greymen once marched through the ashen field.
in sultry mire and ashen pits,
the horde of grey were the last to yield.