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Cornelius


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Posted Tue Dec 22nd, 2009 2:35am Post subject: The Witch's Crow

The witch would gallivant upon the moor
And take her victims to lay on her home’s cold stone floor

The witch would crow against the storm
As man changed into a beast’s form

Whilst the fact of truth became useless
Superstition won over the mindless
And the power that was because of the innocent kill
Filled the priest’s heartless bodies full of ill will

The witch will crow no more on the moor
For she is burned by malice and forever a haunting folklore

The witch is remembered as history had its way
Not ever will she stalk our children and on their mind hearts prey

What was true then is a lie now and what was a lie then is true now
What stayed the same was the spear that was forged through stupid fear
And today it holds the heart of strangers as high as any that of any cow
Why is it that the witch must be burned before we can hear?

Maybe we cannot hear nor ever awaken, perchance we are amongst the less blissful and forsaken
Because it was not the core of our children but our own that was taken

Hence if we refuse struggle to win our hearts back once again
The covent of fear that was because of men, will poison our core every now and then
Rendering us defenseless and in desperate need for help, leaving yours truly in loathing of the idiocy of men

Do behold, the witch has risen once more on the moor
But there is no crow to be heard or any children to be found on her cold stone floor

Has she come as the avatar of change, a transformer for balanced scales?
Is she not searching for victims, but being one herself
I liken her to an old bard, musings writ this witch tell tales.
A tale that reinvents life as soon placed in your bookshelf
Simply dare to turn her pages, embrace her lyrics would we not be better for it, as I have understood for myself

My blessings are to her are and they are many in number
Let us hope that it will suffice as the folly of men encumber

Cease killing of the innocent lamb and ignore its face of a raven
Who are you to scorn nature's gift, I do say this earth is a convergent haven

I say let the witch live, let her gallivant unburned
For I must see her again before death have me turned
Let the witch whisper outside my door
And please let her crow once more... on the moor

No woman ever shot her husband while he was doing the dishes

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