and the Bishop he recanted,
and the pumpkin watchers, chanted,
an orange hue like planted,
where the piles of bones,
were granted , a burial in the night,
and the Warlock in his death grip,
from skeleton fingers slipped,
then the spark of life unzipped,
and he sprang up shouting Elvis,
and he rocked on out of sight,
like a froggy frats delight,
demonic just not quite...
re Russell Sivey "Warlock's Demise"