BY DR. AGONSON

The witches stir their pot’s bubbling potion,

with cackling mad, snorting loud commotion.

Three tails cut off rats who’ve tasted men’s flesh,

a hanged man’s purple tongue, it must be fresh,

and wisps of a virgin’s sigh make the brew,

then add the secret ingredient too.

“We’ll have them prostrate before us,” she laughs,

“and by this power they shall fear my craft.”

Rejoins her sister, “Clay this world will be,

my word law, forcing peasants’ bending knee.”

“Destruction, is this coven’s wicked goal,”

states a third, “of the ever-living soul.”

“For, that is the fearful price we must pay,”

they sing, “fallen to Beelzebub’s rage.”

Through the night this mixing trio toils,

plumes of steam rising to the sky coils,

casting long shadows by blazing fire,

mere tools of another’s masked desire.

Over earth this envious poison spreads

choking out the freedom that these three dread.

Listen to my beautiful voice: