She approached, being heralded as a beacon,
Of everything that encompassed,
Mogra fragrance, baby skin, incense sticks,
Affection, vengeance that made men-folk suicidal
Able to suck dick without so much as a shudder.
Utterance from her mouth,
Filth did in profusion spout,
Vilifying everything that men-folk did,
Their sweat, belch, radioactive seed,
The Head-Witch meanwhile stoked the fire,
Quelling traces of existing carnal desire,
The rest of the Coven whispered into her ear,
Acclaiming, extolling, they steered.
Pretension bubbled, volcanic eruption, spewing,
A pagan ritual she was made privy to,
Ensnare a Monarch Butterfly,
And puncture its wings,
The finale included throwing it off the Empire State Building while it shrieked for mercy.
She did so,
Citing the newfound obsession as justification.
Little did she realise,
Even as the Monarch dies,
It’s his omniscient reign,
That shall pervade and gleam,
She fares no better in butchery,
Than taking a nice good fuck silently,
The diabolic drone of its flapping wings will ensue,
Melancholy of an elapsed symbiosis, it will ensure,
And the conceptualized validity?
Those are just norms of the society,
Flouting one, you made one of your own,
Thus for a new one a sapling you have sown.
Eons later will see that one being bettered,
Silhouette of your desolate soul shall be deterred.
Go now, hang right now from a noose,
Hah! Too bad bitch! You lose!