by Sycamore Smith

In a dark and luxurious grotto
Far below Crow Blister creek
Dwells a secret society whose motto
Is "We put the 'iiieeee' in shriek"
They formed when the Pike City Half-Skulls
Teamed up with the Silverback Royals
This toxic concoction of rascals
Was mixed by a man named "Atilla the Boil"
The signet is pressed
In the melted red wax of the seal
The Congress of the Obsidian Eels
Atilla insisted thier new name reveal
The depth of their writhing dementia
So he christened his lads the Obsidian Eels
Though he christened with Christ in absentia...
Atilla said, "Eels, I must take you
Where the Crow Blister pitcher plants grow--
We'll pick 'em and swig 'em, then build us an HQ
Where bottomless pits fear to go"
They eat Venus Flytraps
They've fattened on cognac and veal
The Congress of the Obsidian Eels
So one summer's morning at 7:06
They gathered around in a ring
And they dug with their daggers and crowbars and picks
And they didn't let up till the spring
Oh, the caverns they cut are exsquisite--
Like the Tower of London, but sunken
And the strangers who come for a visit are given
A 40 year tour of the dungeon
The gas lights come up
On the trespasssing fool to reveal
He's surrounded by the Obsidian Eels
Atilla treats new recruits cruelly
Sending them off to the grind
To make bullets from lapis-lazuli
Or to break rocks in the gunpowder mine
Still, should they choose to recruit you
To refuse them would be suicidal
So just suck it up when they boot you and brand you
And hand you your bit and your bridle...
And pull when you're yoked
To the spoke of a stone-crushing wheel
And welcome to the Obsidian Eels