Hungry for hardness,
hoping for oaks,
I cast acorns in a grove
of granite.

In every village I chose to pillage,
I caught the spillage
of sacrificial sludge
in a chalice, mine emptier
than any, then brimming
abrupt compunction.

I dug a grudge for a moat
but couldn't stay afloat.
Slain sprites are quite
an unforgiving medium.
Whenever I start to incant,
they interrupt me to chant:

Hurt us again & you will not win
another battle. Fool fool fool
you spindly matriarchal tool
of Thor, weaving on Fate's loom
a doom you must recognize
as your own by now...