Temple W****s gone Wild

The moon is a guillotine
that severs stars from the sky.
Time stumbles along dragging an axe
to the end of days.
The black forest of love
is a moaning choir ruing
the rot of ruination.

This is not a most solemn hour.
This is the hour to cower and run.
The w****s of the temple have turned
on their master.
To avert disaster
the master has packed up his gold
and chartered a ship. He is doubly
determined to give
those vengeful w****s the slip.

However the night seethes
with enchantment.
Gleaming green trails of neon
mark the passing of w****s on broomsticks.
Lighting crackles
as w***e
hackles rise.

A pole dancing w***e flies
the red lust of doom
sparks from her crazed eyes.

She espies the ship at its slip and dips
to loose a bolt torn from the rage of her ire.
It is pure neon green fire
and it burns.
Like the molten core
of a ripped off w***e
it burns.

But the master is keen to avert total disaster.
Therefore he gives voice to a plea.
Do not tell your vengeful sisters
instead come flee with me
and half of mine is yours.
I have a hold
stuffed with gold,
you see,
we could be
so
happy.

Avarice is a wicked thing,
a thing of which
any w***e might dream.

Therefore this w***e
gave thought to the masters scheme.
She calculated the split,
got on the ship,
and joined the master,
giving her ripped off sisters in sin
the slip.