98 words

I.

What will they say of us,

those who soon will come after

we lie dead in our puss,

our decadent bad art

that evokes a cuckold’s laughter?

Our people will depart

this vale, too, like a worm,

but seem much, so much dafter,

gone before their term.

II.

Orcs lay siege to our walls

and yet our Pope’s a shafter

who does not heed our calls.

There are no pearly gates.

No bearded kind old Crafter

looks over our sad fates.

May our best, our strong,

man window, gun and rafter.

Life is short, art is long.