The greatest runner can't beat their reach
Jump to the bottomless pit if you care
Distance is no barrier to their sinking glare
Your flesh and blood they'll certainly fetch
And in their coven they'll gladly share.

Think not of them as carriers of open identity
For they are like houses of Aids. Call them spirits
Call them owls or bats, black dogs or cats
That's the symbol of their popularity
That's the agents of soul cannibals.

Their ultimate mission is destruction
Have them in your lineage, you'll pity yourself
Regardless of how little, they could be like elf
And their hunting spares no location
They care not if they are victims themselves.

If their claws strangle your soul
In four legs you'll stand
Tied to a pole in their arena
With your blood, their jars will be filled
With your flesh, they'll dance round the sand.

But when we dance our joy, we lose our foot
Our calamities, our racing nightmares
And the fall on our roofs has a root
Let us pace to the cross rivers
Where the foe of our terror grows.

Those with scarce yellow teeth, and long chewing sticks
Those with steady blinking eyes, and vague character
Should be the suspect of the matter
Let them chew some virgin esere beans
To wholly declare their innocence.

We must suffer not a witch to live
Sever their heads with the power from the village
Add a potion and burn it to ashes
That their new beings will cease to show
And our future will be free from bondage.