Alchemisland

Belle of the Styx

Look sick in triple six

Her sandalwood aroma

Her hands without arthritis

Joseph of Armitithea a carpenter

Knew how to handle wood.

Bring wood and oil for pouring

This poor soul to release

From the abundance of her lust, her appetite no man could cease

For this disease we the Just have decreed she be deceased 

Smell of burnt flesh, air tangy with adrenaline

Even fixed to the oven pile she’s seething, hissing like a scared kitten

Her congealed fat like old grease bubbling into candles

Her daughters raped and slaughtered, no land to them

Every night a witch goes up like a lantern

But tonight one goes down, bride of the phantom

She goes down a ton, Lord Grantham 

Ass tattooed with hand prints

No safe word but speed dial reads ambulance

I’ve had sixteen ambien night’s not over yet, face like a bien bien

Stupid smile one tooth cracked from fuck knows what

Recommend Bepanthen for a reddened bum, Goodnight Vienna

When I’ve cum I blurt out done

Won’t walk after what I’ve done

Squirting like a broken glue gun.

---

Oil my wood for ease, a crescent moon her statue grey cheeks

Crucifix displayed upside down, dying to get down

Her dyed hair is up as she goes down like town’s lights at dawn

Make-up by Picasso, smeared and needing clearasil this clown.

---

She sicks out blasphemies

She the product of a foot stuck out to trip

A pyre spreads like a rumour amongst the bundled oil wet sticks

Ethics learnt from elementals, a king upskies on leathern wings

Her poor disguise warps, crinkles and dissolves, revealing a thing

Witchfinder gestures toward his well done stake

Ten more so like until we find the spies

None dare to upbraid his cruel methods, far from Bethod and the Babe of Bethlehem’s lessons

Masses where God is not mentioned

Mass crowds will murderous intention

One more, to ensure no lies

She is carried forth, Samael’s bride

Her Father Ismael the carriage’s rider

Her name given under no duress

Madness’ court begins session

Flame licks the hem of her dress

Beads compel saints to intercess

Her body bound for the cess pit, down to Set 

No leaf falls in the Leith, here the most have least

Held on leashes, stitchmouthed they adore a beast

Her Schonbrunn yellow hair greys, all age in one day

The ardors of a lifetime fire carves across her face

When dunked she bobbed pronounces Hopkins

Her blood is black at the prod of a Bodkin

A proud Prod who else would

Daily turn a witch to soot

Nothing remains of the day, Anthony Hopkins

See the same today but they brandish shotguns

When the fire dies her scorched, blackened skull is like a shotput

Mimic Longinus and use a spearpoint to check she’s kaput

Her stymied output of vicious spells brings an end to proceedings

A day of death exchanged for a lifegiving evening

Drunk men pleading with plaitted lassies for pleasing

Shoving, grabbing, groping, taking but never easing

What remains of kindling peasants take home

Before immersing her evil structure in rapid lime

The crowd make relics from her body, it’s borderline

A protective charm compels a dead witch’s bone.