Cacknot

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These knives are, for me, cacknot,

Assailing a whooping, screeching mass.

Hindered by a will to survive an onslaught,

Unable to blot out the ginded barvana.

Bring it again,

And again,

Krondered in a huddled pile,

Against a wall of filth and revile.

Sleeping now. But not for long.

Tell me what you think.