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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