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.