What are we fighting for?
Into the deep, you wander and creep, but never pondered and think of the haunted that linger and weep so tired; they never sleep. A young stranger walking along a path unaware that he is in danger so its fair to leave him to a wrath of a skeleton wrangler. When the job is all done hob goblin's feast on the remains, blood pours, scream roar along the gorge, begone mother hen your son is no more. Shuffle around the strangers do, hoping to find the long forgotten ingredient in the stew. A song they will sing lashing the gradient of flavors into a brew of goo more nutritious than a nut and berry boogaloo. Hobos with a rash of dash and flee away from the bright blue bumblebee stinging people all willy nilly until they sit so scared in the corner with the fleas.