#125
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.