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Picture Credits: Banshees Unltd.
The keen of the peasants
shall mimic her cry.
Black coach-a-bower comes –
is it your turn to die?
Oak coffin awaits,
headless horses, deeds dire -
dark Dullahan driver
and funeral pyre.
Outside your front porch -
Hark! There rumbles the hearse,
with the basin of blood,
to accomplish the curse.
The wail of the Banshee
now pierces the air,
while death faery dances
and shrieks from her lair.
She’ll fly to your window -
she’ll perch on the sill -
in the wee hours of dawn,
when the air’s stony still.
She’ll lurk and she’ll watch
for the first sign of Death -
longing to savor
your last ragged breath.
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