Witches gather as a coven plotting deeds by the dozen, making spells from potions and smells, ready to cast them on boys and girls. Black clad with rickety hands, long crooked noses not smelling of roses. Each witch chops, the ingredients to mix the elixir, potions of death and one that will fix you. Eye of bat, leg of toad, they won’t break this practice code.
They chant and cast their spells as the caldron boils and swells. Off on their broomsticks to create hell. Wizened old ladies with secrets to tell, magic potions and sinister spells, lots of things to buy and sell.
When their work is done, before the rise of the sun, they scurry away to their own little hovels, they settle in bed with a spell book or novel.
Rhythm of the Ink 