The moon is a guillotine
that severs stars from the sky.
Time stumbles along dragging an axe
to the end of days.
The black forest of love
is a moaning choir ruing
the rot of ruination.
This is not a most solemn hour.
This is the hour to cower and run.
The whores of the temple have turned
on their master.
To avert disaster
the master has packed up his gold
and chartered a ship. He is doubly
determined to give
those vengeful whores the slip.
However the night seethes
Gleaming green trails of neon
mark the passing of whores on broomsticks.
A pole dancing whore flies
the red lust of doom
sparks from her crazed eyes.
She espies the ship at its slip and dips
to loose a bolt torn from the rage of her ire.
It is pure neon green fire
and it burns.
Like the molten core
of a ripped off whore
But the master is keen to avert total disaster.
Therefore he gives voice to a plea.
Do not tell your vengeful sisters
instead come flee with me
and half of mine is yours.
I have a hold
stuffed with gold,
we could be
Avarice is a wicked thing,
a thing of which
any whore might dream.
Therefore this whore
gave thought to the masters scheme.
She calculated the split,
got on the ship,
and joined the master,
giving her ripped off sisters in sin