Sunday, 14 November 2021

The Reporter for Witch Magazine

Getting sentimental, in Pendle

With a modern recorder

For supernatural dispatches 

And I can not afford a

Slip of the tongue 

When surrounded by strength 

On the search for woman 

Who'll go to any length 

To coven her right to

Be what she wants

I discover the night 

And the most silent of fronts

The story looks short

When it's told by a man

For the wonder of mystery 

He'll never understand 

That the blood’s on his formals

Won’t sisterhooded cloaks

Won't croak to the normals

Or snitchiest folks

Who lust after magical 

Takes for their papers

For these are all tragedies 

In black as coal makeup

Of friendship and collectivism

And natural wonder

And kindship unflinching 

In misunderstood thunder 

So take down the Old Bailey 

Raise heads going under

Put out fires decided 

By suited profunders

The docks are for fatcats

And liars in power

And a hex on these men

Each witching hour

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