by Nick Gisburne
It’s tough. It’s tricky. Magic’s not for me.
I never want to wave another wand.
The only fun in sorcery I see
Is fishing tipsy witches from the pond.
It’s all so very solemn, so intense,
And Latin is a bugger to recite.
On top of the incredible expense,
I’m done with dancing naked every night.
A splinter from a broomstick. Who needs that,
The trauma, tweezing timber from your crotch?
Methuselah, my daft, demonic cat,
Is probably a zombie. Trust me. Watch.
Two fingers to the coven. Never doubt
I’ve pissed in all your potions. I am out.
