Absinthe tainted lips told their lies,
hurtful declarations for all to hear.
“Regurgitated bullshit” somebody cries,
“your target I’ll no longer wear”.
Stepping on toes is the height of deceit,
mastered only by the coldest of hearts.
The practitioner’s, impossible to entreat,
feel their infliction is one of the arts.
They may not bunch up in covens and yet
I’m sure a broomstick is not far away,
embrace one for long; see the infection you get
more than penicillin is the price you will pay.