I'm standing in the kitchen,
Huddled over pans and pots,
With a cloak around my frigid neck,
And thoughts in dashing dots.
As I watch the flame grow brighter,
I proclaim myself, with glee,
(Though, in hushed tones, mind, at this late hour,)
Warlock of the three.
All the cinnamon and nutmeg,
Fuse perfection with the blood,
I concoct a foul potion,
Of dried raven's wing and mud.
Every flash of darkest lightning,
Sends a shiver up my spine,
As I know this homemade storm, it is,
Divine and wholly mine.
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