Bent low, our hearts weighed down with dread,
Through winding tunnels, where few have tread,
We crawled, armor clinking, slowed by the mire,
Eyes on the treasure, hearts filled with desire.

Fangs lurked in shadows, venomous and vile,
While Stheno waited, with a wicked smile.
Hot as a flame, her gaze cut through,
Tempting, taunting, our fate to pursue.

“Onward! Forward!”—the leader’s cry,
But fear gripped us, a venomous lie.
Too late! Too late!—her serpents sprang,
Hissing death in a furious gang.

In dreams, I see her, the fiery queen,
Her eyes burning bright, her scales obscene.
A beauty so fierce, it sears the soul,
Yet leaves behind nothing but a cold, dark hole.

If you could feel the sting of her bite,
Or see the fallen, lost to the night,
You would not tell, with such reckless jest,
That death in her pit is sweet, or best.

Dulce et decorum est,
To face her fire, to meet your rest—
But in the Snake Pit, with Stheno hot,
It’s just a fevered death, best forgot.