Burn Through the Witches

Don't be led by,
Frankenstein's bride,
Amalgam of estrogen and chocolate.

She rides a corvette,
Sans collapsible roof,
And feasts on the souls of the dead.

When she dances fast,
She'll set you on fire,
To chip a hole in the ceiling of hell.

But when she slows it down,
Better run for your life,
'Cause hell will freeze cold,
So scared'll it be,
When she,
Attacks.

So get back on track,
Stick with the easily fed,
If you want to hold the leash,
And not be choked by the collar.

Because autoerotic asphyxiation only goes so far.
Specifically, until you die.