Blood Lady of Cachtice.

(Just a wee poem about Elizabeth Bathory)

Noble stature of a countess possessed, wrecking and ruining the flesh of the submissive. Gold in their pockets and smiles of joy, lashes of red for fragile minds so coy; deprivation and degradation, the result of sadomasochism and mindless molestation.

Girl by girl, limb by limb, life to lifeless in the castle of darkness. In a place of noble etiquette, such monstrosities, these atrocities of witchcraft.

Blood soaked brutalisation of Carpathian walkways, a trail to the barren prison of sixteen ten, where the blood countess fell for years into hell.