Magistrate of lost souls,
curated bicep ranged,
clouting the clouds.
Loud, lout. Out.
Imparts the mortar,
banners, spittle,
ignominy and torture
for love of his daughters.
Guards his Asgard,
with hardened gait
and half and half,
for garlanded gobdaws
who, as mere men,
fickle as a windsock,
locomotively forget him,
mishear his steed's trample.