There’s a rich witch of word rotting dank the old-world,

Brewing in a country mansion full of black smug mold,

She strung a story of magic that turned her head gold,

Then fought her body worshiping the dual idol images,

Seeking a vanished world of black and white simplicity,

To keep on way them dark cadavers of her richest tale,

That kept pure an influence to obsess her indifference,

Weaving out turfing hag-rags oppressing scapegoats.

She was scared to broom relief a bathroom,

Fearing wand might slip-side her gold toilet,

For she saw herself as only a sexual woman,

Never knowing feminine gender's liberation,

Rambling dazed in rooms she didn't belong,

Falling logged a splashing driftwood duck,

Yet clean waters rejected such putrid stank,

Floating her up to heaven as a foul wafting.

She’s a witch of the worst caliber I do say,

And I've met many a decently kind witch,

But the spells she cast grew moldy purity,

Being wayward as her chosen one vanity,

Each hissing with the courage of a snake.

For a golden head is not for well-thinking,

As a Midas hand only hardens members.

And a woman with a hardened rich head,

Is such a witchy burden on all the others,

Much as a flailing gold hand a horny man,

Is a wand of trouble for innocents of land.

But it’s so sad, isn’t?

When you become that haggy trixy character you’ve written into stories,

Serving a dark lords purpose afflicting torture on the ‘unpure’ expression,

All while thinking you’re an intelligent granger squirming cursed on floor.

Then again, her grimoire made special place for slaves and stereotypes.

How hard it must be, being a rich witch given the world,

To loose it warring words favouring discriminating hatred,

Surrounding oneself in an echo chamber reverbing curses.

I do hope the curses that follow my writing spells don’t end me smug moldy,

And so, no icons of duality do I worship as true understanding of complexity,

And no hoarders gold will I try keep, for a hard head and hand I do not seek,

Just the lines that flow an inner eye, to spread a body’s mind into fullest time,

So from honest love I script, from justice I seek, to end this dark magic cruelty.

Be gone you richy witchy, back to your mansion!

To gleam at gold and glare stare snake friends,

To hide your stench in a field of scented flowers.

Your dark lord may have risen, giving such pride,

But we know, the good people's will does decide,

For your curses have rebounded reek in heaven,

Becoming a smaug glow of gilded imperfection,

Prone to a bard spearing that dark magic heart,

To quell rage-fire burning innocents of the land.

Blinding wealth aligned your house cruelly for unjust war,

So a snake you became pretending to have a lion’s heart.

But hear me roar rich witch, for we rise this day refreshed,

But your curses have ended you a smoulder in smug mold,

And your endless gold hoard will never save your split soul,

Nor your snaky friends whisper any words that may consol.

To be given so much,

To only take from others,

Idolizing your false purity,

Obsessing hollow divinity,

Instead of offering real love,

Is a tale that will last the ages.

And so, as a stereotype will I trap you in time,

As you’ve expected upon others expression:

“The northern rich witch of word,

Who spell bound an entire world,

Offering treats and magic wands,

That split her soul a golden head,

To look in mirrors her sexual body,

Hardening her ravaging appetite,

To go feast on harmless children,

Stalking the innocent in lavatories,

Corrupting town courts to cruelty,

Torturing to gratify a dualistic god,

Till sealed in a black mold mansion,

With only snake hisses reaffirming,

In flower fields to mask the rotting,

Having no paths to guide any near.”