On All Hallows’ Eve the hedgerows sing

Tonight we feast on blackberries bitter

with the Devil’s spit,

on toadstools smooth and flecked

as His arcing spine,

then dance dance dance the Master’s jig.

 

With lizard-tongues and speckled suits

we’ll charm all triple-teated twigs,

milking squeals of dried-up glee

as we tweak their mossy beldame tits

and with our lichen lances drawn

splinter with them on mossy floors.

 

Let young shoots, straight and full of sap,

crow all they want; it’s they’ll be hacked

and dried for old folk’s walking sticks,

while we prance lanes in search of

old folk’s hearts to skewer until they gasp

and shudder as if with boulders pressed.

 

Tonight we’ feast on blackberries bitter

with the Devil’s spit,

on toadstools smooth and flecked

as His arcing spine,

then dance dance dance the Master’s jig.