The scent of eel, a whiff of rosemary
Some mandrake root and wings from a fairy
My mortar and my pestle grinds them all
The full moon summons Dire Wolfhound's call
The ley lines drawn, diaphanous, glowing
The rites are complete; the power, flowing
Success, I cry through the clouds of gases
I see through your top with x-ray glasses
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