Hecatean Pursuits

Tonight, who will be harried by the moon?
The as illustrated almanac buck?
Or the witch, hunting the mushrooms...strewn
on the forest floor where she loves to fuck?  
 
Who, by the potent lunar seas on high,
is the low lumen target of the hunt
by ceaseless edict of October sky
and hyperactive eutherian cunt?
 
Thus, men are not the sovereigns of pursuit;
not the mighty hunters we claim to be,
but a preordained olfactory brute
led by the nose, and our lunacy,
into the master plan of mother mind...
whose midnight brilliance rules all mankind.