A silken spell, knit strong by highest hands,
Holding tight the seething ball of black,
Woven to perfection, sealed by God,
Equipped to brook the deadliest attack,
Within the flowing sackcloth’s golden thread,
A travesty of demons waxing wild,
Loosing scorn and magic on that place,
Reserved for one; the steadfast holy child,
And is there aught of doubt or flinching there,
Upon that clear visage of Christ on high?
Nay, not one iota, mark ye well,
No soul shall His pre-eminence decry,
And pray, what do I see writ large anon,
While sifting through the codex of the skies?
A signature, made by the Prince of Air,
Set down by the deceitful Prince of Lies,
And where is this consent laid down you ask?
What pledge has Satan made before us all?
Confession, on the body of Our Lord,
Aye, even he, to Christ must duly crawl.
Renfield H. Bizarre, 08.08.16