The council of Boulee answered the call

and congregated in their subterranean hall.

This place is where curses are created,

ammunition those who hate, against the hated.

Words used to maim, wound and kill.

Unholy rituals for an unholy thrill.

Designed to strip humanity

of lives and dignity

This gnashing, wailing throng,

sit around a table, for this horror song.

Their horned leader glides in silently

and eyes this mob violently.

To perform spells of demonic heresy,

under the guidance of his infernal majesty.

THIS HUMAN, he spake, KNOWS OF OUR POWER.

WE MUST ACT IN THIS WITCHING HOUR.

HE MUST LEARN THE MEANING OF FEAR.

He screeched as flaming images did appear,

of a boy, no more than thirteen.

The assorted demons and banshees scream.

WE NEED A WORD THAT WILL CRUSH HIM.

PREVENT HIM FROM EVER BECOMING SERAPHIM.

Many suggestions were made in turn,

until a Hellfire demon said “something that’ll burn”

The siren screamed “We should drown ’em”,

leading a mortal to smash into the Golem.

QUIET said the Horned God in a quaking tone,

PROCEED he hissed to the demon from his throne.

Through charred lips he said “no power of it’s own,

something that burns” leading a Goblin to crone

“A pile of sticks”, YES roared the heathen abbot,

TO DESTROY THIS BOY, WE’LL CALL HIM A FAGGOT!

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