We set aside that which is good,
for neither pious nor piety are understood.
When in the early hours of the night,
we gather those seed which in our eyes burn bright.
Six and ten the final score does make,
of seed pods not too hard to break.
That night’s veil will open upon the shore,
of even the edge of death’s subtle door.
So in our humble earthen pot,
we gather together that dark seed rot.
From which our journeys will encounter,
a devil to ride us, that old mounter.
The mother’s root we hold in our hand,
before we stand on crooked land.
And speak these words of even fate,
that those who cross us have come too late.
“A seed for joy that ever withers,
A seed for love that ends in smithers.
A seed for she who rides the sky,
A seed for he who speaks truth’s lie.”
In our palm we deftly clasp,
an iron spike to take to task.
And draw upon the road under foot,
that circle of he whose eyes are soot.
The bitter seed of this old friend,
does give and take the life within.
For just before we reach death’s door,
we find that long forgotten shore.
Could we but look at tomorrow’s dawn,
and know that darkness carries on.
The spirit takes us to our sabbat,
that we may partake of the devils habit.
Soon enough we will return,
From whence our ribaldries we should learn.
To speak in the cursed devil’s tongue,
and sing those songs best left unsung.
“A seed for joy that ever withers,
A seed for love that ends in smithers.
A seed for she who rides the sky,
A seed for he who speaks truth’s lie.”
From Wormwood’s
“Gramarye of Profanities, Vulgarities, & Diverse Blasphemies”
available from Alkahest Press.
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