11 Moustachioed Daughters

Innes-Stanshall Eleven moustachioed daughters, running in a field of fat The moon is high, the mandrake screams Please come to our Sabbat The changeling children shiver, round the fire their mothers dance With strangely painted faces That smile but never laugh The crow-pecked gibbet's victim swings broken in his cage His hands cut down to make a crown To wear as our homage Round & round the magic ring soft figures fastly rush And wolf-like things & toads with wings whisper wetly "Come with us" The fresh-plucked eye of a favourite cat Pulped and mixed with a white hens fat A lapwings' wing and lions' gall And Belladonna to make your eyes Like a beasts To anoint the body and make it shine To drink & make thyself divine To choose another's form and make it thine And now they gibber blasphemy & fill the fetid air With ancient lies & leprous cries This night he will be there A madness has them, mouths gape wide As one they sway and moan, & every brutish face is turned To see our Goat-King's Throne (I don't remember too good, but I think John Wayne was in it)