The VVitch

The fever never had a chance. Foretold,

The witch once said, with fur for eyes and twigs

For hands. A mutiny of pocks bore hold.

Weasels whimper, wallow, smoking limp cigs.

The witch does hum to lull the animal.

Alas, the things which deemed her friend did turn

On those which chalked her hand: turned cannibal.

With blood and gore and teeth that shred and yearn.

The fever did grab hold of me, and shook

Poor me from limb to limb. The witch she had

Her way with me, my skin does shred, to cook.

But oh it is a sight to see the lad.

My bones she curdled in a pot so black

The night looked white. As for my eyes they lack.