April 29, 2018
While we're doing poetry based on recent events, I figure it's time to dust this one off, too, in honor of the late Baby Alfie. Rest in Peace, dear child:
In dead of night the witches creep
like spiders in a bed.
In dread delight their riches reap
from young girls they`ve misled.
With lies their Devils Plot unfurls;
cajoling with forked tongue
the Witches try to trick young girls
into murdering their young.
They claw inside scared mothers womb
the unborn child their feast.
Denied the covers of the tomb
forelorn, defiled, deceased!
Stoke the furnace hot with coals!
The unborn won`t be missed!
Pour out the bowls of children`s souls
Hells` scornful Eucharist!
Then take the head; the blood runs red!
While wet with death, the Coven
they bake their bread of children dead
in Margaret Sanger`s oven!
And they devise to hide the cries
of the myriad tiny souls
whose blood decries the Witches lies
while their bodies rot in holes!
Young mothers used and then discarded
are tossed aside, confused
while at great cost and broken-hearted
they stand alone, accused.
To snuff out life before a breath
In a land where evil`s good
is Satan`s manna; the Bread of Death.
They`re called ``Planned Parenthood``.
And in the night they find delight
in Sin which brings forth Life,
then out of sight those wolves may bite
and murder with a knife.
In cursing God do all abet;
no supplication do they pray,
while with a nod and small regret
the Nation turns away.
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