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The sun was three oaks high when Little Fairy
Woke up from her delightful little dreams
And moved her thigh covered in crushed red berry
Ardently being licked up by morning beams.

“Who would the daddy be this time, I wonder?”
She mumbled with a careless sleepy smile.
It takes a journey through some hell and thunder
To dream your future husband, fairy style.

It was a bear. He took her to his deadfall.
His iron hair under her digging nails.
His only tear, the dome where crippled bats crawl
And spiders cry, and swallows eat their tails.

It was a faun, you know, blue-blooded satyr.
You’ve seen him; he craves fairies day and night.
One low-pitched moan is all it takes to bait her,
Our poor lil hopelessly loveseeking sprite.

It was an angel, dressed in black like demon,
Emerging from a quiet misty lake.
– It wasn’t mist, but swans.
– Not swans. Drowned women.
They bathed him in their love, all his to take.

The crying bear, half-man in his repentance,
The shadowless and shameless furry faun,
The angel shackled in his earthly sentence –
All gone and vanished at the crack of dawn.

When faes give birth, you see, it’s fairly natural
For cyclons of both worlds to get mixed up.
From deepest dens of earth that smell like petrol
Red berries grow.
Bad berries grow.
Sad fairies dream.
Dead fairies sing.
They never stop.