The will of the hallowed witch of Endor.

She howls low and cackles
Like crackling cattle-flesh
Upon long-whored flame;

A solo, sullen gaunt breast
Above skin, scarred, seared,
By matted wayward locks,

Hanging, as she slices twice,
A live lamb, until it is still,
Reading the pool of blood,

By the blackening of wood,
Chanting, casting the lots,
As thunder up high, cracks,

And the sum is summoned
Along the sight seen in red,
Then on, toward the tomb.