Into the tavern,
surrounded by slattern
you sit down and wait.

Gluttenist bastards surround,
like hords,
they ask if you'd like a drink.

Caring aside,
you accept the gift;
pushing the poison a drift.

The hords evade,
I hate this day,
shrink into the slade.

Dotting my eyes with poison
the hords begin to die,
and why?

Knowing the reason,
you leave yourself; mutter
ich hasst du, Scheide.

---

I got tired of waiting for a challenge, Jules , so here is one for you. Using the following words, and not passing 70, you must complete your art.

Words:
tavern, surround, glutten, hord, drift, slade, dot, die, reason, mutter, Scheide