The Mark Strikes Casters

Crisis whisked takes a risk,

the keeper in a skeeting shoot.

Numbers stopped for lest they prop,

instead these times are tables dead.

Nine, Eleven, Twenty-Two said,

spelt to out cause numerical says,

not the same but still a game,

'cause why on Earth would it be came.

Next to Watch the temper pot,

mechanical root is timbered loot,

Rosicrucian has a Past,

whom does Grove performance wrath.

Digging louder Presidents craft,

Moloch Owling Hoots a Cat.

Clausing fillers with same exacts,

hooded Monks Catholics back,

Pope to Pope a City stacks,

Rome is burning Nero Claps,

Fine to Bow the Fiddler caps,

draw the rosin Cello laps,

pluck the red or black-golded strings,

it's the Harp inside the 'ings.

Xylophone pinging drops to shrill,

cant't be that cause trumpets kill,

boom goes the tambourine in clash,

oh wait I know the Church is Racked.

Audiences congregates in templed Mass,

renditions changed for broader last,

speaking tongues that cling like wrap,

now the Sigil is broken  Cack.