We had a cabin up Spider Mountain that Zombie’s
Couldn’t get in past the tree line. In colonial America,
In the early, parts of the twenty-first century,
To spill blood from a young woman’s womb
Was, a crime, well that’s how they knew each other.
In this cabin, a dog stood guard, by day.
And at night a closet opened and my Fairy Godmother,
Fell, out with a broom and landed in a pool of blood.
Out the window, the trees and rooftops were lit
By the moon, and the grass grew in Cobler’s Feild.
A decadent librarian perused the pages of a text,
High-lighter pen ready and was drenched in blood.
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