DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fantasy Fan, v. 2, issue 5, whole no. 17, January 1935

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Fantasy Fan, v. 2, issue 5, whole no. 17, January 1935

Page 73

January, 1935, THE FANTASY FAN     73

LATE REVENGE

by Duane W. Rimel

Spawn of the cellars, rising black,
Midst darkened doorways, out a crack;
To wither each bright blade of grass,
And smother flying souls that pass.

Spawns of the cellars; evil slime;
Heed not their calling, lest they climb
As rays of light upon thy face,
And steal thy spirit's resting place.

Wraiths of corruption, creep not in;
For though their minds be steeped in sin,
They hold a germ of terror yet,
That baffles every evil met.

Seed of the tombstone, enter now;
Their house is darkened to the mow.
Your chance has come to right the wrong,
That you have waited all too long.

Spawn of the cellars, rising fast,
To seek the hell-hounds out at last:
They cloudlike through the window creep,
On those who sprawl in drunken sleep.

Dread putrefactions, find your breed;
That you may pay that awful deed;
That you may spread your bloating jaws,
And sap their entrals through your maws.

Germ of corruption, speed ye fast.
A thing is rising to its last;
For greedy claws to grip around,
And carry back to that mouldy mound.

Spawn of the cellars, get ye back
To gulfs of darkness where no track,
Can trace you to that worming brood;
Or toss your bones in darkened mood.

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January, 1935, THE FANTASY FAN 73 LATE REVENGE by Duane W. Rimel Spawn of the cellars, rising black, Midst darkened doorways, out a crack; To wither each bright blade of grass, And smother flying souls that pass. Spawns of the cellars; evil slime; Heed not their calling, lest they climb As rays of light upon thy face, And steal thy spirit's resting place. Wraiths of corruption, creep not in; For though their minds be steeped in sin, They hold a germ of terror yet, That baffles every evil met. Seed of the tombstone, enter now; Their house is darkened to the mow. Your chance has come to right the wrong, That you have waited all too long. Spawn of the cellars, rising fast, To seek the hell-hounds out at last: They cloudlike through the window creep, On those who sprawl in drunken sleep. Dread putrefactions, find your breed; That you may pay that awful deed; That you may spread your bloating jaws, And sap their entrals through your maws. Germ of corruption, speed ye fast. A thing is rising to its last; For greedy claws to grip around, And carry back to that mouldy mound. Spawn of the cellars, get ye back To gulfs of darkness where no track, Can trace you to that worming brood; Or toss your bones in darkened mood.