The Magus wears a garland of doll's eye, Leaves, bare of fruit, on his horns -- the berries Were for the withering of children's fears, Though too often the tiny babies die. A terrified young witch mother carries Her lovechild into a circle of sneers, Desperate to fondle the Goat's hoof, In spite of a starveling's left-handed proof. The witches gather with a wanton will. Though none has yet to cast a spell with skill, They believe coupling with the Magician Will make them charm like a politician. With moonset, the end of the Sabbath looms -- A gibbet of dead babes and gravid wombs.