Hellfire In A Whortle

Hellfire In A Whortle

Imagine, if you will
Colours inverted
Upon windswept heaths

Hogshead upon a hearth
Embers pulsating
As stories crackle.

Petals curl
Turning crispy bacon
Burnt Christian rose.

Howling house hounds
An Archbishop�s son
And Dashwood�s merriment

Welcome to the Hellfire club
Whoring fake nuns
To Bacchus and Venus.

Lost to the Dilettanti
A single heathen
Sights a heeltap

A widdershins swirl
Of hellebore tips
Escaping the next offering

Oh writhing pile
Says the galumphing fool
To the paganus horde

As immolation looms
Our sweetard dreams
Of childhood picking.

Of gooseberries,
The red straw and merry
Raspberry riots

As flames lick the hall
Grand stair, settee
And Satanic maul

A blaeberry popped
A single coil
Of a lady�s poison

Embrace the fire within
Our ugsome man
Counter-wise lashings

God�s wrath
Maybe, perhaps
Or poisoned berry

Disembowelled
Sloshingly fallen
Nither a berry heath

Smoky ruins
Rising from the ashes
For a little longer

Devilish detail retired
To Dickensian heroes
And now,

Home to the more
respectable
Pickwick Club