By the morn light of Aireskoi
We spotted a party of twelve Huron
Three robed white men rowed at their lead
Meaning to peddle their toothless creed

Silence, we padded softly to the campsite of their portage
Loaded the thunder sticks, loosened our knives in their sheaths
Grandmother moon will watch the wrath of we Iroquois
They still slumbered as our firebrands struck their tents
A choking scrambling Huron cried
A slash of a tomahawk turned his jaw to a splintered wreck
Fires danced on canvas and hide
At close range our thunder sticks barked their doom
Rending wounds two palms wide
They pleaded for mercy in the light of Grandmother moon
Our laughter curdled the life from their eyes

From a white man’s head a scalp was torn
From his side a strip a’ flesh was shorn
Roasted an eaten in front of his eyes
Between his hand bones slid our knives
We drank from their veins
Cut lengthwise down their limbs, baptismal mockery
Boiling water was poured over the pussing remains of their skulls
Tie our spoils to the backs of the slaves
No nourishment they’ll trek for days
Festering wounds beat with a club
Nightly tortures fingers to stubs

We came across, the burial ground
A standing pyre, overshadowing
Silent in might between the trees
Our weary captives cringed as their forced to their knees
Presented to Aireskoi as his next sacrifice
Then carrying on, at the break of dawn, a palisade wall
Emerged from behind the forest glade
Within the villagers frenzied began to sing
Voices hopeful for captives we were
We were greeted by a tide, of jovial kinsmen’s pride
The villagers formed two parallel lines
A gauntlet awaited our ill-gotten finds
Their hides were battered raw, by axe of bone and rock
Prodded and pierced, the villager’s fiercely
Finished the ones who wouldn’t go on
Their eyes were glazed, their faces crazed
Their damaged flesh, hung loose and decrepit
Their dragging feet, left strips of meat
Thus the gauntlet ended at the feet of the rack

Arms lashed to the rack, heads lolling listless in despair
Our matriarch brandishes lake shells
Scraping their hides and rending tears
But by proving their strength on the rack
Even a foe may be our son
The victim becomes the captive
The tribe becomes stronger by one
The village takes part in their torture, as a whole
Our children torment them with fire-brands
Our elderly sear them with coals
But by proving their strength on the rack
Even a foe may be our son
The victim becomes the captive, but for now
The weak will be flayed, on the birch rack
Flayed on the birch rack

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