Classic Poem

I fancy myself being a witch.
Broomstick borne and black as pitch.

Thin, stark-naked and with fire for eyes.
Killing men whom I despise.

Bewailing the woeful life I led.
Casting dark spells, makin’ them dead.

Thronging ghettos, to unbend bent backs.
Handing them knives, ’least an axe.

Lot later I fly to temple streets.
Our men firm, I show my feats.

Haunting oppressors to shave their heads.
Cutting all their holy threads.

Experiencing joy as they bleed.
Dance, rejoice my black black deed.

Leave one farewell note, an obscene cue:
‘Judgment day is long since due.’

Ultimately, I’ll lie in the ditch—
Ne’er give a damn, when called ‘Bitch’.