I hear the thumping sounds of magic,
Witchcraft; in my perfect language,
And as I draw toward the aching attic
The voices gnash and wail in bondage.
But I would not use Cogito in vain,
My sire would rise and shriek in shame.
Mon Dieu! Where art thy righteous chain?
To bellow from breasts that would be tame!
Open, you door where broomsticks slave,
Show who hide, you chanting druid
From shadows, in vices, from a homestead cave,
To demons in valleys, and with gasping fluid.
Show me and hold my Bible back,
Show me and wield my handy hack.