by Nick Gisburne
Another grave, another peasant, dead
But this is now the last before we leave
Cadavers fill the river’s dusty bed
An evil place, where none will come to grieve
For centuries they slaughtered witches here
And scratched their crimes in silver at their feet
We crack the coven’s coffins twice a year
To bring their withered bodies blood and meat
At every bend we leave a battered box
Within it: skin and sinews, strips of cat
Tomorrow, at the chiming of the clocks
The dead will rise, together, for a chat
We organise a disco, now and then
But always get them back inside by ten
