How to shake off cobwebs of infernal grit,
Is sticky and sticking on my tongue.
Your brooms and prods are much sophisms of wit,
Dullard's fare for the black widow's song.
And those black pearls of eyes entreat you to stay
On her palace of strands where you lay.
So she has touched you, has she? Now is the day
Your insides melt. Sucked, and dragged away.
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