Sorceress Poem by Mark Heathcote

What is all this noise and incantation?
Is this sorceress a test of temptation?
Her lips are sweet; her looks are chill
What inhibited beauty she inhabits still
Lord, pluck out my eyes; I care less
If insipidly her looks, they're lesser blest.

Her body is a lyre I must play.
The need is urgent; send my valet away
For from here now on, my verse is hers
My songs, all but one, foul and terse
Her music has cast a spell on me, yet
And not a note misplayed or a fret.

Her heavenly orb's blindfold is-well-kept
Keep my arms around any other transept
An enchantress of times gone by
Only in death shall the heart and soul detoxify
Such charms as these be not heaven-made
I've dined with the devil; now I'm enslaved.