Ichor of the Incubus - Introduction

Four centuries, with this disease

I wallowed, 'pig in mud',

Cursed by that witch -- that gypsy bitch,

Who sunk my town in flood.

You know of me, my infamy;

The town which bears my name,

But all you've heard -- each sordid word

Has been part of a game.

On one side, white, like richest cream

Or softest, warmest breast;

And opposite, like blackest pit;

My soul, in e'er unrest. 

We battle on, our weapons drawn

To know, once and for all,

Who goes down, and who gets the town, 
to hold in monstrous thrall.

I have bore witness to all dark business

Done within the Cross;

Cursed or nay, that bloody day

Will be that harlot's loss.

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© Jackson Cambridge, 2016.