31 December 2012
"So this is what's called 'Witching Hour'?" I heard a daemon scoff.
I checked my watch and smiled a smile, He was a minute off.
This little angry red thing, With horns and fangs so red...
Had no idea in a moment, What would come instead.
The skies would turn to mottled grey, The moon would cease to shine.
And in a flash of blinding light, The planets might aline.
The witches would come shrieking in, Their skin a bumpy face.
The daemon should be shuddering, And put down in his place.
And if he's lucky, he'll survive, Maybe three limbs down.
The less-than-lucky? They're a sight, When the witches come to town.
Witching Hour. • Opuss № I