The whiskey witch and the parlor snitch

and the pig between with the hungry itch,

one fallen from clouds, one brought from the ditch,

that whiskey witch and parlor snitch.

Scaly and brutal, the monster's beast

Grown up to hold high its virtues least.

Then golden and pure and the darkness all ceased

was the quicker and wickeder seraph priest.

Neighbors and strangers and demon and sprite

One does by wrong, and the other by right.

But then circumstantial per things come to light,

To whom do we turn, the demon or sprite?

Down they go, bent low on their knees,

one for pleasure and one to please,

or for the same, men bury their seeds,

whether done by love or love's misdeeds.

Mothers and daughters and fathers and sons,

killers and liars and fathers and nuns,

lap 'round their brain like the skies to the suns,

beat back and forth like the rattle of drums.

Never was the coupled counsel wont of being wanted

on account of making choices on account of feeling haunted.

An eager man with conscience can not help but feeling taunted,

but therein's that counsel, unforgiving and unwanted.

They weigh your shoulders down and they keep you on your toes,

shoulder-floating phantoms whom no man or woman knows.

Each of separate places every man and woman goes,

the golden light of shame and the demon witch of woes.

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