The Old Ones sleep
In slumber deep
In caverns carved out long ago.
Dreaming dreams of Inverness
Where rotten steel struck rotten bone
And corpses baked under a dying sun
In lost Carcossa, their tattered King
Roams empty halls of an ancient keep
Hollowed by remorse and jealousy
Ghosts and shades avoid his glance
His rheumy eyes pitted black like coal
This tattered king in Inverness
His subjects to ash returned
Dust to dust and nevermore
Dry winds across an empty floor.
Fear you all, the darkened places
Where ancient gods lie in grim repose
Listen not to echos from these graves
For craven thoughts, beg for craven deeds.