WHY NAHEMAH HOLDS THE KEY TO ALL OCCULT KNOWLEDGE & POWER
Posted: Thu Aug 14, 2014 7:58 am
WHY NAHEMAH HOLDS THE KEY TO ALL OCCULT KNOWLEDGE & POWER
This is a true story. It explains to new members who come seeking knowledge why authorities such as Nahemah sit on their thrones and withhold the long-desired artifact, The Key to Occult Knowledge and Power. The research was conducted using articles from 'The Sun' in the UK.
1.
The toads were laughing on the night
The witch Nahemah made her flight
Upon a broom made from the hair
Of demons who fly in the air
And wood cut from the bleeding trees
Lost in the darkest vales of Hades.
She flew in search of long-lost treasure;
The golden key of occult power.
Deep in an ancient Scottish dungeon
Nahemah stood before her cauldron.
Around this iron bowl small imps
Would hop and fart like crazy chimps
And tease green flames which spat with anger
From bones whose spirits' fueled the fire.
She used her broom to stir and beat
The poison herbs and cannibal treats
Which moaned and slowly boiled there
Until steam filled the fetid air.
Its then with ancient names of hate
She changed the steam into a gate
To call the mighty witch Rose Red
Whose reign is over God's cursed dead.
“O sister! In this secret Hour
When planets flip give me the power
To steal away that Golden Key
To every occult mystery
That I might hide it in my throne
Made from the skin and boiled bones
Of those who trespass on my Forum
Demanding that I teach and guide them!”
The witch Rose Red then answered her,
“O sister! By the sinister
Three faces of our dame Hecate
Fly quickly now along the way
Far south, far south to baleful Rome
And break through Petey's gaudy dome
Because the popes keep our gold talisman
To gain Satanic revelation!
They've used its power to gain riches
And turned it on our sister witches.
Go get it back, now and for good
What they stole from our sisterhood!”
Then in a cry like breaking gravestones
She vanished. Nahemah was alone.
She shrieked for Vashta and for Frumens,
Her favorite imps, who tried to bend
A black cat over them to hide
But they failed because it cried.
She shot out fire and burned their tails
As they crawled up the wall with wails.
She seized them snarling, “Now Frumens, Vashta,
Behave or I'll feed you to Ramscha!”
She grabbed her broom, flew up the tower
Emerging in a brimstone shower
To streak across the Scottish skies
With her cackling and her cries.
2.
The holy pope lay on his bed
With a nightcap on his head
In which was stitched in silk and gold
The story of how Christ was sold.
Young servant boys tucked in his sheets
So they were folded nice and neat
Into three layers, a Trinity,
So he could sleep both snug and holy.
Just as his baroque clock chimed three
With moon-shaped bells that quivered sweetly
The golden key he always wore
Knocked like old Luther on his church door.
He knew the secret, knew it well,
The old pope warned, “This opens Hell!”
Then to his horror he saw steam
Come from it like some hideous dream.
He pulled it from his starched pajamas
(Made from the wool of sacred llamas)
And sat up as a bat-shaped shadow
Just soiled the stained-glass of his windows.
There was shriek and then they broke
In clouds of heavy charcoal smoke.
In flowing folds of black and fire
Nahemah emerged with flashing ire.
His imps changed into large black cats
Which hopped down from her pointed hat.
“Give me that key! It's mine by right
Because I serve the gods of night
Who forge the darkness of the new moon
To spells which make the saintly swoon!”
His fat cheeks quivered and his belly
Was shaking like … well … a bowl of jelly.
The nightcap rolled off from his head
As urine soaked into the bed.
The black cats tore the silken pillows
And sprayed him as he started to bellow,
“O Heaven! Send to me an angel
To come and save me from the devil!”
Then flashing hands grabbed both cats' tails
And swung them like they were old flails
In scratching, shrieking circles they go
Until he throws them out the window.
“Now foul virago, sinful crone
Of darkness thou shalt soon bemoan
That thou didst breach this holy place!”
The pope yelled with a round, red face.
She swung her broom; with just one pass
She knocked the angel on his ass.
He flew to Heaven loudly whimpering
And left the pope to squat there simpering.
She seized the Key and broke the chain
Around his neck. He winced in pain.
The pope turned pink, then white then blue
And fainted as Nahemah flew
Out through the window to the sky
Cackling her triumphant cry.
“Now all the secrets of the ages
And all the works of ancient sages
Are mine, and mine alone, forever,
To share or not with whomsoever
I want because I deem them worthy
Due to their great respect for me!”
And thus, today, all those who come
And log on to the Occult Forum
May only have the deepest secrets
If our grand lady Nahemah wills it.
This is a true story. It explains to new members who come seeking knowledge why authorities such as Nahemah sit on their thrones and withhold the long-desired artifact, The Key to Occult Knowledge and Power. The research was conducted using articles from 'The Sun' in the UK.
1.
The toads were laughing on the night
The witch Nahemah made her flight
Upon a broom made from the hair
Of demons who fly in the air
And wood cut from the bleeding trees
Lost in the darkest vales of Hades.
She flew in search of long-lost treasure;
The golden key of occult power.
Deep in an ancient Scottish dungeon
Nahemah stood before her cauldron.
Around this iron bowl small imps
Would hop and fart like crazy chimps
And tease green flames which spat with anger
From bones whose spirits' fueled the fire.
She used her broom to stir and beat
The poison herbs and cannibal treats
Which moaned and slowly boiled there
Until steam filled the fetid air.
Its then with ancient names of hate
She changed the steam into a gate
To call the mighty witch Rose Red
Whose reign is over God's cursed dead.
“O sister! In this secret Hour
When planets flip give me the power
To steal away that Golden Key
To every occult mystery
That I might hide it in my throne
Made from the skin and boiled bones
Of those who trespass on my Forum
Demanding that I teach and guide them!”
The witch Rose Red then answered her,
“O sister! By the sinister
Three faces of our dame Hecate
Fly quickly now along the way
Far south, far south to baleful Rome
And break through Petey's gaudy dome
Because the popes keep our gold talisman
To gain Satanic revelation!
They've used its power to gain riches
And turned it on our sister witches.
Go get it back, now and for good
What they stole from our sisterhood!”
Then in a cry like breaking gravestones
She vanished. Nahemah was alone.
She shrieked for Vashta and for Frumens,
Her favorite imps, who tried to bend
A black cat over them to hide
But they failed because it cried.
She shot out fire and burned their tails
As they crawled up the wall with wails.
She seized them snarling, “Now Frumens, Vashta,
Behave or I'll feed you to Ramscha!”
She grabbed her broom, flew up the tower
Emerging in a brimstone shower
To streak across the Scottish skies
With her cackling and her cries.
2.
The holy pope lay on his bed
With a nightcap on his head
In which was stitched in silk and gold
The story of how Christ was sold.
Young servant boys tucked in his sheets
So they were folded nice and neat
Into three layers, a Trinity,
So he could sleep both snug and holy.
Just as his baroque clock chimed three
With moon-shaped bells that quivered sweetly
The golden key he always wore
Knocked like old Luther on his church door.
He knew the secret, knew it well,
The old pope warned, “This opens Hell!”
Then to his horror he saw steam
Come from it like some hideous dream.
He pulled it from his starched pajamas
(Made from the wool of sacred llamas)
And sat up as a bat-shaped shadow
Just soiled the stained-glass of his windows.
There was shriek and then they broke
In clouds of heavy charcoal smoke.
In flowing folds of black and fire
Nahemah emerged with flashing ire.
His imps changed into large black cats
Which hopped down from her pointed hat.
“Give me that key! It's mine by right
Because I serve the gods of night
Who forge the darkness of the new moon
To spells which make the saintly swoon!”
His fat cheeks quivered and his belly
Was shaking like … well … a bowl of jelly.
The nightcap rolled off from his head
As urine soaked into the bed.
The black cats tore the silken pillows
And sprayed him as he started to bellow,
“O Heaven! Send to me an angel
To come and save me from the devil!”
Then flashing hands grabbed both cats' tails
And swung them like they were old flails
In scratching, shrieking circles they go
Until he throws them out the window.
“Now foul virago, sinful crone
Of darkness thou shalt soon bemoan
That thou didst breach this holy place!”
The pope yelled with a round, red face.
She swung her broom; with just one pass
She knocked the angel on his ass.
He flew to Heaven loudly whimpering
And left the pope to squat there simpering.
She seized the Key and broke the chain
Around his neck. He winced in pain.
The pope turned pink, then white then blue
And fainted as Nahemah flew
Out through the window to the sky
Cackling her triumphant cry.
“Now all the secrets of the ages
And all the works of ancient sages
Are mine, and mine alone, forever,
To share or not with whomsoever
I want because I deem them worthy
Due to their great respect for me!”
And thus, today, all those who come
And log on to the Occult Forum
May only have the deepest secrets
If our grand lady Nahemah wills it.
