Into the Coven

The season of the witch is autumn long
Weird silence falls upon the throng
They smoke black drugs with Saturn’s bong
And blast our mind with evil song
I see witches in the sky
Flying toward a Quaalude eye

Visions of light from the demons sun
Goat-headed serfs drink to this dawn
A strange vintage brewed in casks oblong
In a perfumed black mass with reptile gongs