28 October 2012
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.
Cooking Up A Storm • Opuss № I