The Witch's Lot
Bog berries and frog eyes,
on an afternoon surprise.
At the Witch's Lot.
Where aches fester and rot.
Where witches spin and turn on their cot,
and close their thick thighs,
around flying sticks that rise,
and fly while hot.
Witches strafe above,
riding toward the sky,
in
loud
ecstasy.
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