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Beneath the trees, across the path,

Lies a cabin cursed to rot.

Etched with markings on the door doth heed:

‘The Witch Lives Here... The Witch Will Feed’

...Burn her to the ground! Now!

They bare a cross, no unturned stone,

And seek the lost in parts unknown.

Intrusive thoughts in spinning heads,

As they reach the woods where the field is red...

...With corpse blood and bones.

She starts off small to quench her thirst.

The women and children are slaughtered first.

Her sacrament in the dead of night,

Makes red look black as her dagger bites.

No hope but one; to be left for dead,

Or drop your gun and bow your head.

Survivors cower and choose to follow.

The rest she’ll devour, savour, and swallow.

The witch takes a drink.

Witches take the drink.

Witches maledictions haunt them in their sleep.

For those who are spared are made to grovel at her feet.

Believe the words and bleed the night; the ritual is done.

The village must embrace her; the witch’s song they’ve sung.