Weaving Spiders

Weaving Spiders

Where Spiders weave their webs of gold,
There is a strange tale waiting to be told,
Hidden beneath the mighty redwood trees,
The dark secret rituals of the Illuminatees,

O mortal fools to cast upon the Fairy Queen,
When all the creatures of the wood have seen,
Them caste poor dull care upon the bone fire,
As they worship the ancient demons of Tyr,

Do they think the Fairy Queen won’t fight back,
When the bright children of life they do attack,
She calls to all the spirits of the sacred land,
To tell them the time of reckoning is at hand,

She sets the silver Spider into the cosmic weave,
To tamper with the web that they may perceive,
That they are not the only meddlers in the magic,
For she has had enough of their weaving tragic,

Enough of them throwing their children to the fire,
And enough of that double crossing Red Bush liar,
So she reaches her icy fingertips to his frozen heart,
Figuring its as good place as any for retributions start,

She laughs as she tells his cold heart the real price,
For the part he played in things not so very nice,
She tightens her chilly grip upon his bloody organ,
Letting him feel the wrath of Witch Queen Morgan,

He feels a trickle of sweat, a bead of fear,
Silently softly she starts to whisper in his ear,
“Depet mut nn; This is the taste of death,
Enjoy your last taste of sweet mortal breath,

Dig your own grave dark and deep with a spade,
For you will pay for all the misery you have made,
Then get your demonic self back to bloody hell,
And take with you your frigging Illuminati spell,

Release your morbid grip upon this mortal reality,
For tiz a cheek to call yourselves The Illuminati,
For Illuminated ones you are certainly not,
And of you the world will be well shot,

For you we the fairy folk shall not weep,
As we condemn you to endless dreamless sleep,
And free the mortals from web you wove,
With your dark rituals of the Bohemian Grove,

So Mr Bush it comes the time to die,
And we the fairies shall not cry,
For you we shall not shed a tear,
Or for your nasty web of fear”,

With that she snapped her fingers together,
And extinguished his dull care forever,
So there it is the strange tale to be told,
Of the sad fate of the weavers of gold.

One can only hope that your tale is true,
And that this will be what the fairies do!