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An epic poem by Baron P. about the tale told by the songs:
The Last Harvesters, The Poor are Craving Bread and Jealous Minds of the Poor Children
I'll tell you the tale, and I'll sing you the song
Of a person, a king and a harvest gone wrong
The land was obscured, and infested with death
The air was so thick, you could choke on one's breath
It was there on that miserable, sick patch of earth
That a people had settled and the women gave birth
To sturdy young men that could not settle with less
Then to deal with the cretin in charge of this mess
A new moon had risen, there were signs in the sky
That night there was something not quite right
With the grains in the wheat and the rye.
On the horizon, towering over this all
Stood a moldy old castle, a mighty moss covered wall
Within its depths dwelled a villaneous gnome
A cancerous growth, that perched on it's throne
The taste of death was on the tip of his tongue
He saw the sun rise, but it felt so wrong
He showed not a frown, nor maniacal grin
But a passive indifference that rooted within
Orders? What orders! Don't tell me more.
His kingdom was dead, and so were the poor
And while his magistrates gathered, the poor craving bread,
They felt no compassion, for they were already dead
Teeming with fear they started to swarm
In their eyes, looming images of an oncoming storm
In the barn lay the scythes and stakes, fervently waiting
The defining revolt and grotesque parading
One man made the difference, and held his torch high
The horde swarmed around him. Set flame to the sky
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