weak men

retreat from
this strange land.
pull back on that steed's
rein
and thunder out
and away from
this land
not of oz
but of some queen
on a thorny throne
with a wand
that she wields to slay
weak men
that love her.
get them, kill them,
torture them
first, let's
see them twist
in the cold wind
in their lethal passion.
she's a spider
on the ceiling,
in the corner,
dropping down with teeth
bared,
the blood of others fresh
on her jowls,
her appetite is endless
for this sport,
a spider with silken
traps, sharpened nails,
and
poison,
so bright, so cheerful,
so loving
before the death.