Dark Armour

In twists, vines of dark tighten.

From shoulder to wrist my arms writhen.

Thorns, sampling my gore.

Suckers, asking for evermore

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Those who ask, shall receive.

A merry banquet, of more, pieces, of me.

Bad in luck, you aren’t a Whom,

your name rests over, and under my tomb.

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Snake ate its way, replacing your tongue.

An improvement! - Yet to you, I’m not made of fun.

Dead tell no tales…. they can’t mouth asks!

They should’ve chopped you, mopped y_ou,

and drowned

y o u in casks.

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Link to pic of poem:

https://i.imgur.com/UEUwuTa.png