Old Scratch

Simon MacCulloch

Screeching as I shred them, banshee hags

Twist within my talons, tattered flags;

Gorcrows flee me, cawing.

Slit-throat ghosts flop bleeding from my slashes;

Vampires vomit stolen blood from gashes

Opened by my clawing.

Ripped to rags my demon minions crawl,

Palimpsests to bear my scraping scrawl;

Wolfmen howl my flaying.

Seam-torn by the rigour of my cuts

Dragon bellies drip with dragon guts,

Rank with ancient slaying.

And here upon the drum-skin of this page

These runes inscribe the scribble of my rage

For each poor mortal lich;

Explaining that these Hell-abrading scratches

Are tickles, nothing more than gentle practice -

It’s you that is the itch.