by Nick Gisburne
Protector of the sacred light of life,
Betrayer of the dark, eternal dead,
Behold the blade, the sacrificial knife!
We can’t, because you’ve left it in the shed.
It’s Friday, midnight. How is this so hard?
It’s not like you were busy, is it, Pete?
I wrote you clear instructions on a card.
Don’t blame it on the witches down the street.
You know what they were summoning last week?
A Demogorgon. Demons. Scary stuff.
A pigeon, with a limp, without a beak,
Is all we managed. This is not enough.
You drink too much. Your chants are out of tune.
You’ve had your final warning. Vanish. Soon.
