The Ancient Revelry

The tares, from their infancy,
Are sown into black soils,
And there they grow with 
Instruments of anarchy.
They stab, they fight,
They poison, they kill,
With the dagger, with the fist,
With the chalice, with the sword;
Every object in their home is cursed.
They fly upon their broomsticks,
They dance nude and enter one another;
They only allow the poets who are naughty
To be spoken in their ancient Golden Era.
And to them, it is joy, the hellish stress,
For they remember their Garden of Earthly Delight.
And they wish to once more bring this age
To fruition, now that Christianity had abated that hell.
Do not acquiesce. Fight with words, and slay the dragon
With the breath of our peaceful prosperities.