Bewitching Hour

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Nymphomaniac urges,

rancid desire submerges.


The red moon blooms like the thorns of a rose,

black robes fold on worm-eaten soil.

The mistress of nightfall strips from her clothes,

with sins of the flesh her chastity soiled.


Juvenile hearts are growing sour,

bestial cravings at bewitching hour.


Scornful savages are robbed of their women,

to purity and preservation the mistress is the villain.

Her reluctant virgins writhe with skin exposed,

to fiends of intercourse their souls were proposed.


They scream and plead with aching sex,

begging for the outlawed sons of Hades to smother and caress.

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