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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a curse on RGM who is a revolting African tyrrant

Submitted: August 06, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 06, 2011






I’ll tell you what the Weru knew

A curse to make you pay your dues

 An oath so dire they feared to make

 Their enemies and foes to take

Those ones who pulled and dragged the stones

The folk who lifted granite prone

In sin they stole a bullock white

Was Boand’s cow they slaught at night

They cut its tongue to stop its call

And hooked it on the withy wall

They found the bloody trail at dawn

By riverside the guts and brawn

They could not bear the wicked sleight

But had no stomach for a fight

So called upon the Wynter Crone

A Villainy, she could atone

They screamed across the darkened waters,

They called not for the Beara daughter

The Fury heard the Weru call

And raised herself from mountain hall

And Cailleach strode from craggy hame

With slaver’d lips, her prize to claim.

The hag she ran in tempest cruel

And catch’d men for winter gruel

She squeezed their fat with bony claw

And ground their corpse in toothy maw

She broke their bones and heads did crush

The brain inside was turned to mush

Their very blood she made it clot

And made them leak from hole and slot

She dried their skin until it crackled

And all the time she laughed and cackled

Her mirth was hid by thunderous cloud

She gathered round her stinking shroud

And Weru gawped as she did reap

And stack their foes in bloody heaps

They asked the Beara just one time,

For justice in the bloody crime

Of course her fee was just too rich

They had to pay the ancient witch

And they must pay with baby’s death

She stole away their children’s breath

For every time she swung her staff

She’d make another cackled laugh

And when the flesh of men she flaked,

A Weru babe she’d also take

By dawn a child would Colden be

And laid upon a bed of reed

Her lips were dry, her eyes opaque

Its breath was stole for words of hate

So listen now, I know those chants

And once they’re said, there’s no recant

I’ve found the words of ancient Briton

A scratched stone where they are written

Uncovered on a fallen lith

I heard its place in ancient myth

I found it by the water’s edge

Entangled in a bramble hedge

You see I’m just a wither’d man

My days are few, my soul is wan

I have no wife, no child at foot

No friend or pal to pay the cost

In meagre toll that must be paid

She’ll add me to her bloody hoard

For my dry bones, she’ll wave her staff

Then dance upon the frozen earth

And spit upon her fiery hearth

She’ll find you in the Afric lands

To drag you through the thorny sands

She won’t be stopped by Vicar’s rant

Not magic nor a ‘Nanga’s chant

She’ll bring you back to strip your skin

Then eat the offal found within

I do this for the sins you made

The murder and rapine you hade

For acts of war, your deeds insane

She comes for you before BELTANE






© Copyright 2020 Cyrus Hood. All rights reserved.

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