Coven

Coven Dancing in the dead of night, Howling at the moon, Calling to Beelzebub, Hoping he'll be there soon. Waiting for the ignoble Beast To come with his hounds of Hell; Preparing for him a virgin feast, Awaiting the sound of Satan's bell. Spinning into a frenzied state, Sweating blood before the dawn, Each one offering to be his mate; The crucible of the Devil's spawn. But soon the sun begins to rise, And no appearance has he made; They wipe the tears from out their eyes, And with sorrow leave the sheltered glade. To spend the lonely hours of day Quietly pursuing their daily chore, Keeping the hellish hounds at bay 'Till they return to the glade once more. To once again repeat the rite, And call forth the Creature foul; Twirling through the dark of night, Bemoaning their fate, to the moon they howl. But he does not come, this accursed slime, To take to bed his earthly wench; They merely spend this wasted time Letting their minds rot in the stench. The blessed sun will rise anew, And their efforts will have been in vain-- But somewhere in a church's pew, A crippled man will walk again.