The Leer is here.
I feel his presence on this dark moor.
The lawns of blue have merged into a sticky black floor.
The moons are low.
His angry eyes outshine their soft glow.
The gnomes he's slain launch cries of pain across the fields to echo.
My harp is sharp.
The strings are tight and power is felt.
The notes of peace I shall release will make his bones melt.
He will return.
The heat from morning suns will soon churn.
And so I wait at his den's gate; my song will make his flesh burn.
The Leer is seared.
He runs for shade inside his rock home.
He meets the noise from music toys and turns into a gray stone.
No more fear!
We're done with troubles from the Leer.
He's molten bone and rock and stone, since life shot into his ear.
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