They said that it was required;
A quintessential step in my indoctrination.
But they didn’t mention that getting so tired
Was from a potion to help with my castration.
They strapped me onto a shoddy wooden table
As they licked, and whispered into my ear.
They bound me fast with a rusty cable
And called me a “precious little dear”.
For a moment I tried to fight back,
I lurched and squirmmed with my fleeting might.
But it only slid me deeper into the crack
That those witches dragged me through that night.
The oldest of the those in the clan
Slicked a rusty knife with boil-ridden lips,
And she ran her moldy fingers to my little man,
And dug her splintered nails into my naked hips.
The potion was doing its work by then,
And I was beginning to lose all feeling –
Until that knife did what it does to all poor men
Who think that joining a cult is appealing,