She is wicked, wicked, wicked–

She is wicked, wicked, wicked–
a crone desperate for the smoothness of
youth,
a rounded, maiden
craving the tang of lust, and
a doe-eyed child who cackles alone in the dark.

When she emerges from ash
wolfbane dripping from her
sickle-pale flesh,
she will muddle the minds of men,
so their shrewish wives will never question,
why their wombs remain barren.

She will suckle the bone marrow from the children
and slurp in ecstasy of the tang of the newborn.
The animals will howl and bark
but she will feast in peace.

Nude before a flickering flame,
she writhes in abandon,
hair wild, unruly, tangling
in the howling wind,
His touch will calm her,
as he offers her luxuries
in return for fealty signed in blood.

She is wicked, wicked, wicked–