“must be the season of the witch” —Donovan
A witch lives inside your soul, you say?
A witch, you hate, but love anyway?
The witch escaped the granite home
And rides the lurid windy foam.
The witch of office politics
Feeds a fire with different sticks.
It’s furiously cold outside.
Statistics of witches stretched and lied.
The newspaper sings a holy song:
A covered stereotype with a bomb.
This witch has no address.
Her body sways. She says no and yes.
The beautiful witch
Eats my soul. Love is homeless. Love’s an itch.
Take me into the shade.
Kiss me. I’m afraid.
Politics is the invention of the witch.
Politics is shameful and wild.
They crowd the hill to kill the child.
The last virgin to ever innocently mourn,
Succumbed to lesbians in porn,
Acting more real than any play.
Nothing stands in the witch’s way.
Strict and covered is the Muslim rule.
Life strays too much. Make life a school.
Christ made too much of the beautiful word.
Now it’s more simple. The poor and a sword.
Our most famous film is about a witch,
The most famous play has three of them,
And the greatest poem is Dante’s Hell—
His Paradise only a pale diadem.
Dante and Beatrice—he was ten and she was nine.
Red is the poet, and red is the wine.
Wake, and get in the car by nine.
All the papers said she was in it,
The woman who inspired the poet.
But now the woman is on her own.
There’s a mixture of every crimson tone.