Mutilations
Furtively they search the sky for alien beings,
those responsible for the gutting of their cows.
Foolish to look, for there are no foreign things
to prey upon their cattle; it’s the harpy prowls
at night with her rapacious gargoyle entourage,
seeking flesh to quell a quest for pulsing blood.
A whisp of wind, she treks the night, her ménage
of scaly vermin close at hand, devouring who’d
cross her path. Drooling in anticipated feast,
where fall the drops poisonous toadstools grow,
and whom her wings have brushed becomes a beast.
Take care, beware the harpy and pity not the cow
lest become the gutted one to feed the bitch,
or let her wing’s caress turn you into a witch.
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