by Steven Sautter
To wit, to hold, to write in my blank verse;
A task too much for a poor poet's pen.
Naught but poetry can describe the curse
Of the Carrionites on mortal men.
The comely Lilith, hair like night's pitch dark,
Bewitched the senses of Avon's sweet swan
And thus compelled him to write-not a lark!
Lex'graphic wonder as only he can.
A portal to open, that hag's domain,
There by the time Lords they were banish'ed.
Lo, a wand'rer comes, evil creatures' bane.
he doth bind them by name, not cold hard lead.
Hell emptied and all the devils are near.
But be not afeared, the Doctor is here!