As a cold wind from a dark hill chills the evening town below,
Frightening small children with dark imaginings of harm
So Rapaires wicked mind envelops the brightest sons of Mom
With toxins dark, and poisonous, and warm.

Oh, any MOABite may bite his wrinkled thumb
And, small of mind, may small, unmindful say
Whatever to his bitter mind does come
But only One can claim the Twenty K!!;

A