At every birth is God, by whom
each lifespan is decided,
and when One spends another year,
a cherubim will then appear
to note the age, lest one spend more
than what the Lord's provided...
...and in the wood, behind the thick,
Medieval wenches, ravenous
for skin that clings to flesh like silk,
and in light shimmers, pale as milk,
have a special, ghastly trick
for keeping health like maidens:
Bring a victim to your palms
and hold It to your lips,
purse them, then consume the soul
(slowly; never take it whole,
or leave It even partly full—
waste not a bit!) in sips.
Mind the age of every one;
the rest of what's allotted
upon ingestion of a soul
will be reckoned with your own
longevity, it should be know—
by children, be besotted!
Stay you healthy, young and fine,
for ever uneclipsed,
and them stay humanly resigned,
until they separate, in time,
as we're each to eternity
eternally affixed!
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