Saddleworth

Bleak and barren moor of ills,
How well you hide your secret still,
All those long and silent years,
You lay there mocking as the tears,
Did flow as if a dam did break,
The Horrors of your secret make,
But bide you careful deathly mire,
Lest Gods own flame do sear your briar,
And those two Evils locked away,
Will soon their maker have to pay,
A visit deathly overdue,
To shift their ugly mortal coils,
And burn for all their evil toils,
Those helpless innocents cut short,
And interred with your sly cohort.