Beware the snare of the Water Mare,
For she beholds bewitching beauty,
For she features effervescent flair
And a voluptuous vivacity.

The top of her head is as soft as grass,
That gently flows down in streams of glass.
Her ears droop low, hanging like willows,
Her cheeks stoop low, as soft as pillows.
Her eyes spark gold with glances that gleam
With a glittering, glamorous beam.
Her mouth is sweet with honey and grace;
Her tongue entreats a milky embrace.

Her neck is sturdy, as strong as oak,
Rugged yet silky–a pleasure to stroke.
Her nape is sweet and lovely to taste:
It waits to be savored with nary a haste.

Her mane flows down in torrents of dew,
Algae and weeds in a verdant hue.
Her tresses are weaved with ivy and vine,
And braids entwined with patterns divine.
The curves of her belly perform a dance,
Her outlines arching in an entrancing prance,
Her rumpsides flow and ebb like a tide,
Swishing her tail in a billowing glide.

She sings: “Do come, do come, dear one,
Dear fawn, sweet child, brave gallant son.
Allow my waters to soothe and heal,
While your fears and worries conceal.
Rest, my liege; your pleasure I seek.
I am but your servant, submissive and meek.
Master, I’m yours; I give you my all–
I am at your mercy, your beckon, your call.
My waters are restless; they yearn for your touch.
They ripple and swirl; they long for that much.
My waters run deep, for they are my crown;
Now come: in passion, be captured, be drowned!”

How many a stallion allured by her call,
Studhorses and steeds–the strongest of all.
Stout-hearted, steadfast, and standing tall,
In love for this mistress of pleasure they fall.

Her words flow down their ears like oil;
Their blood begins to simmer and boil.
With vigor aroused, and passion aflame,
They rush to her, eager to play with her game.
She opens her maw: they’re entering in.
Her lips draw apart: they plunge into sin.
Beneath her folds lie the mouth of a beast:
It carnally drools at the sight of a feast.

She tears them apart, from limb to limb,
And rends their flesh according to whim.
She cracks their skulls, and crushes their bones,
Savoring their screams with warm, pleasured moans.
She opens their barrels and rips out their hearts,
Whilst shredding apart their masculine parts.
She draws out their bowels and strings up their guts;
Their corpses she plays with and lovingly ruts.

Her waters are sullied with dark male blood;
Her body is stained by a carnal flood.
She bathes in their gore, engaging in vore,
For she is all but a sadistic *****.

And when her lust for blood has abated,
And her craving for flesh satiated,
She washes herself and cleans up the grime,
Then grinds up their bones–no trace of her crime.
To purge her waters of poison and vice,
She quickly performs a small sacrifice:
She slaughters a dove, discharges the blood,
And draws out a circle upon the mud.

She neighs three times, and stomps on the ground,
Invoking the goddess to which she is bound:
“Ishtar, dear Ishtar, cruel mistress of love!
I humbly beseech you to hear from above:
Please cleanse my water with milk from your breast,
For I am your servant, at your behest…”
As soon as she ends this quick little prayer,
Her waters turn pure–no sign of her lair.

Returning to her waters without a care,
She resumes her role as the Water Mare–
A flawless beauty and a lover divine:
Her passion and power are as sweet as wine.
But deep beneath her perfect exterior,
Lies a filthy and corrupt interior:
A lecherous witch and blood-lusting *****,
A flower of death and lover of gore.

Beware the snare of the Water Mare,
For she beholds bewitching beauty.
They never escape who enter her lair:
They wander, lost souls, for eternity.