The Dark Side of Witches

It's the witching hour
To the victims dismay
In this sacred place
The bodies are flayed

Cut into pieces
Left on display
Fragrance so putrid
The smell of decay

Gathering in covens
To mutilate and ravage
Worship in black masses
With dark rites of passage

Chandeliers made of bone
Hang from the ceiling
Mounted high overhead
From those without feeling

Candle Wicks made of flesh
Give off eerie light
Casting ominous shadows
As they burn thru the night
with the blood moon red
as the apple from which witches pick