The Persecution Song

At the very start there were whispers in the dark, and for all the world to see there was witchcraft at its heart. And on the autumn air the scent of bonfires everywhere, and a fell wind stirred the leaves. The persecution song! Telltale signs of possession, little Miss Demeanour in the demon's bed. Gasps she just could not suppress after lights-out midst the dead, and a past on which sin cast its darts of wickedness. Time was running faster for disaster, strange nights were burning in the furnace of her dreams. A name was uttered, Lilith, mistress, playmate, master, Such sights were stolen in the throes of ecstasy. And in the thick of all, in the Black Goddess's thrall, with the wood unseen for trees Victoria stood tall. Promiscuous in step the Devil breathing down her neck, as jealous zealots stitched apiece the persecution song. Telltale signs of possession, fickle Miss Demeanour hissed and disappeared. To her Sisters of the cloth she now reeked of Astaroth, again the curse had surfaced sneaking back the pagan years. Weaving webs of great revealing! Hidden in the convent an evil libido abided, undone. Breathing, deceiving, feasting on her deviant feelings she'd clung to her crucifix once her torturers begun. Her screams came quick, the miserichord, den to vice and screw that had reddened many tongues wrung symphonies of suffering from her. Many moons hardened pure hearts, those plagued by her black arts. Their rooms secreting phantom orgies, vile rites and rifled graves. Mere hours, now towered above this bent and beaten flower. Her naked body privy to the Abbess and her ways. Victoria fought, no guilt was wrought just a torrid retort of blasphemies. Nails and crosses vomited forth from this pretty little whore now arched like Hell. Arched like Hell! At the very start there were whispers in the dark, and for all the world to see there was witchcraft at its heart. But then the end grew nigh a dirge inferno filled the sky In its customary key, the persecution song. Telltale signs of obsession, no wailing banshee would dishonour their name. Nuns dragged her to the blasted oak, storm-clouds threatened holy smoke. They hanged her there like Judas with the Hellcat in her reined. Time was running faster for disaster. Exorcism, torture, gallows now a shallow grave. A name was stuttered, Isaac, tongue-tied, simple, bastard. They made him dig the pit, mindless of what it claimed.