We light oxblood candles,
sprinkle rings of oregano
Crouch over eerie
smartphone glow, cloaked
in black lace garments with
ample stretch room
Our burnt tongues nightly
chant, Deliver unto us
this rightfully-owed
free side of hot wings
With brew pints
bubbling over,
we cackle louder
than the women
with salads
harder than those
in yogurt commercials
with their sensible haircuts
with their mortal flesh