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These tiled walls are wondrous
calamities crumpled them,
these city sites, crashed,
the work of giants!
Corrupted, the roofs have
rushed, rushed to earth.
Porcelain shattered,
the pipes; cracked!
The years have gnawed them
from beneath,
and a grave-grip holds
the master crafters,
decrepit and departed.
In their groan's harsh grasp,
until one hundred generations
of Piss Elf nations
have trod past.
Subsequently, this hall, this wall,
a mouldy black and rust stained,
often experiencing one kingdom
after another. Standing still under storms,
high and wide - and failed!
But the piss halls molder still!
Hewn as if by weapons!
And the white towers like hanging gardens,
wonders of irrigation stand
where a hot stream once was cast
in a wide welling, a wall enfolding everything
in its bright bosom, where there were baths,
heated at its heart. That was convenient!
When they let pour forth the piss
over hoary stones, countless heated streams
in that Moist and Golden Age
where we composed our urinary tracts!
And once more we shall dwell
in those hallowed and ancestral halls.
And live in piss as once we did.
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