Skin, Shin, Boil & Thin

Leather trim and roughage bin

The monster weaves

And then he cleaves

Reaping father and son

His slaughters never done

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Halt, says a gate guard

Before he is scarred

But he never sees the blade

Or the red line it made

For he's already gone

Harvested for his brawn

The dark figure gives a pause

Scratching a long chin with sharp claws

Taking arms from a dwarf

Then giving a twist and a morph

A terrifying creature takes shape

Another in the army of mistakes

Atop a mountain of bones

There lies a pale throne

Upon which perches

The heretic of all churches

It's the Flesh-crafter Elf

An emaciated self