Warlock

This is where they burned their witch,
Half crazed, half starved Old Mother Gee,
Whimpering as they dragged her forth
‘Tis not me not me not me not me,
Then stood bound there 
As if in a loutish dream
And endured those flames
Without a single scream

Causing those citizens, gathered 
There to abuse and jeer,
To stand and mutter and watch
In abject horror and cankerous fear.
Twas my little poisoned needle
Driven swift and deep to the heart
So that she almost instant died
With just a silent little start
And I tied her corpse
To that burning tree
And only I knew that
She’d been set free.

I am the witch finder to seek them out;
Most nights I ride these skies enhanced
By the sacred mushroom power as down
Below my body lies held in deepest trance.

I ride those winds and I swoop and glide,
Play hide and seek with a midnight cloud
For I am the Warlock and do my will, and as I
Fly to the stars laugh my contempt out loud.

deathfantasyimaginationmagicrhyme

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