Hunt her down.

Find the witch and burn her like
wicker does by match strike.
If she lives.

Throw her in the lake
and see if she floats.

Praise be, to the unholy Father.
Burn every bridge he ever built.
If it means he'll never reach the surface.
Drown her right out
of his mind.
Delusions light the free world.

Hate flows,
free through her blood.
Infecting every *****.

First,
with her heart,
then her brain.

A deranged, heartless *****,
with all the power.

Succubi.
Queen of Bloodshed.
Harlot of Satan.

Swing dancing murderers
& ball-room assassins.
Seek her out, on
the dance floor.
To, get a chance to Swing Dance with Lucy, herself.

Good men will fall down to evil.
Slowly dancing and stabbing  
pretty, young girls.
Under the noses of their wives.

To save their,
lost souls
from the belly of the beast.

Covered in their blood, sweat & glitter,
the Party Princesses are slain
by the Princes of Poverty.
Cause they weren't getting pity ******.

Running North,
aura lights
are taking me home.

Six feet underground.
Pine box mannequins,
all done up dead and pretty.

Morticians's pride,
a job well done.

Such a shame,
it was a closed-casket
viewing.

Bitter sweet,
headlines.

Filtered, censored,
cloaked in, invisible lies.

To keep our eyes,
blind.
Unaware of everything that's
crumbling,
beneath our minimum-wag,e
slave feet.

Systematically, we're made
to fall down
on our knees in defeat.

To **** the ****
of a hard ego.

& The beast, he's always near.
Hiding behind the faces of his diplomats.

Politicians are just criminals, who bought their way out of prison.

**** talking
garbage cans.
Can't seem to close their lids,
enough.

Where's Mr.*******
when you need him?

Will you please
shut the **** up?
Before your can gets dented.

Men so quick
to point the finger.

When, they share equal
guilt.
In the alleged crime as well.

We're poster children
The few who got branded.

A scarlet letter,curse.
Many share.
But few wear.

Every white sheep,
is matched up with a black one.
To keep the flock in balance.

There are more of us.
Hidden in your slipping eyesight.

If my pen
wasn't ******'
her paper, daily.

I'm sure, I'd be
wearing a *******
jacket too.

Writer's block,
will be the death
of me.

I swear,
this in several tongues.
Like the Serpents, before me.