It was a familiar blare,
Cymbal and bugle and drum,
Ensuring all were aware,
Of the fiat to be at the forum.
A new name, a new day,
One more alleged agent of hell;
Aye, nay, not hers to say,
Muted, for she may cast a spell.
Wood was got in carts,
Cast around a stake skybound;
The maven of evil arts,
Shackled, was led up the mound.
Her case was briefly read:
‘She read and wrote, hid books;
And an evil life she led,
So many idols in so many nooks!
‘The King offered pardon,
But she’d not confess, implore;
Now, here she must burn,
Per the purging laws of yore.’
There was much murmur,
As all discussed her deserts,
In silence they did concur,
And the flames rose in spurts.
‘Come on, take a punt’,
Later, cried a dealer, hoarse,
‘Predict the witch hunt,
The next name in law’s course!’
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