The Spoonbill Generator: Hoisting Eyeball Three

We were always in her debt

We men of broken corn

We angels of chalcedony

We four who slept in ice before the world was born

We brothers who have never met

We embryos of dawn

You were never in her mind

You cuttlefish forlorn

You demons of the nether slopes

You four who flew in fire beneath young Satan's spawn

You prophets of the seventh kind

You skeletons of scorn

They were always in her eye

Those Patrons of the Yawn

Those spirits of the mountaintops

Those four who rode in style across Belshazzar's lawn

Those victims of the potent lie

Those architects of brawn.

Now all twelve will sing her praise

Before they go their separate ways