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Enters the wicked witch, she’s casting spells.
For anyone but herself, lovely thing,
Would always share her latest party tricks.
She’s coming from Eastern land, let her breathe;
Damiana leaves and strawberry seeds.

If the world’s a carnival, I’m a walking thread,
If one’s jokes are masks that conceal the truth,
Why do all the no-name figures die so young?
Stop, you folk, and look at your own youth;
If my heart stops beating, I’ll be missing out.

Many seek others to fail, still they fall
And break their necks, dares one ask what went wrong?
Purple gown, sticky stage, typos in the script.
There you go, no harm done, good sir!
Aren’t witches cruel when the curtain falls?

This is from a bare and sole, lost memory:
I was lying in the grass barefooted and free,
Sipping some red wine on a pink blanket.
One might say madness had me act carefree
But atrocities calmed my muscles down.

See, it’s all still bright and sunny in this landscape.
It was only yesterday when ladies
Belonged indoors, now there are good chaps also
That cannot escape their Fate, on a saddle,
Yes, I’ve met a man treated like a horse.

I knocked on his door and so scared he was,
Tall with chestnut hair and sweet, kind brown eyes.
I asked him if he’d like a witty talk, wine
Then his wife appeared, a muttering stare
Unclothed me there, what a clumsy trick!

Downright is sometimes this life, don’t look up,
There is no upper than that, creatures found,
Oh, tight embrace, heart to heart, tears so warm
Are pouring down like summer rain, no sound
Is more pleasant than his laughter: my man.

Source: Circe Offering the Cup to Odysseus, John William Waterhouse, 1891


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