Malleus Maleficarum

Ancient fear in a new world,
Men stare in to the void,
Too afraid to glance backward,
At the things they've destroyed.

Call me Ishmael, or Isaac,
Or whatever you like,
When you smell bodies burning,
Down the Baltimore pike.

Fields of crops standing blighted,
Cursed by sinister hands,
Children speaking in voices,
No good man understands.

Neighbour turning on neighbour,
Friends denouncing their friends,
Often greed and not scripture,
Justifying their ends.

There's the fear of the natives,
That will always come first,
But men's hatred of women,
Is most surely the worst.

Though we hear no confessions,
'neath the weight of the stones,
Just the soft sounds of crying,
And the cracking of bones.

Peace will come when the flesh dies,
So that souls are set free,
On the scaffold we built high,
By the Sycamore tree.

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