The Bust of Roth Hoffmann
"Oh! the bust's appalling look,
To see, does no man dare.
The archdeacon has seen his spook.
O' children mine, beware!"
Mother utters this every night-
The tale of Roth Hoffmann;
The tale which sends greater affright
Than any lemure can.
The painter Roth, centuries past,
Brought this town disrepute
With ribald artwork that would cast
On church a wild dispute.
The ecclesia of the state
Made him a derelict,
Did his freemanship relegate
And his work interdict.
And when he was departing by,
Gall-paven in despair,
Damned, "Those who shall look at my eye,
Will suffer evilfare.
Whoever near my bust will stand,
Will venom in me flood.
My empuse will hover this land
With nocent eyes in blood."
My brother, one midnight, there went
Filled with cynical youth—
Did behold naught though hours spent,
And proclaimed it 'untruth';
But when he set to leave the place
A dense darkness rose o'er,
A surrect form stared at his face
With eyes carmined in gore
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