Friday, midnight, moon is waning,
fortunately it’s not raining,
as three naked women frolic
in a habitat, bucolic.
Drinking potions, chanting spells,
these post-menopausal belles
try to summon up their Master,
dancing faster, ever faster
by the light of a small campfire
made of tinder and of damp briar.
In the bushes lurks old Mourant,
toothless, lecherous, unpleasant.
He leaps out, his flies asunder:
at that very moment, thunder
and a vivid flash of lightning,
simultaneous with this sighting,
quickly shatter their delusion
and they scatter in confusion …
To The Press, the witches said
how they were terrified and fled
and how clearly they remember
Satan had a tiny member.
Oscar Milde
Image : Pixabay - TheDigitalArtist
