by Peter Loaf
The Vicar’s daughter, night in the stocks
Head in the timbers, the clicking locks
Spread wet and naked
Daughter forsaken
Her witch’s pussy, the hardened cocks
Her body shivers, but not from cold
Her life is over, never get old
Her last night alive
Her sexual drive
This witch for burning!” The crowd was told
Moon setting silent, footsteps approach
A pervert hooded, he comes to poach
Her hips are lifted
With phallus gifted
His body odor, her Latin coach
“The witch is wicked, the fire melts”
The men come fucking, the crack of belts
Faceless her neighbors
Last night her labors
When dawn comes breaking, crisscrossing welts
“Proof of her evil, consort of goats!”
Witch pyre building, with oil coats
Mounting the scaffold
A torch is raffled
The mob excited, un-noticed boats
The Viking raiders, torching the town
The townsmen dying, falling to ground
Women run screaming
Like fevered dreaming
The vicar’s daughter, treasure new found
Viking wife aging, land of the Dane
A strange little smile, memory of pain
Their last night alive
Like bees to the hive
Her greatest revenge, her greatest gain
