“Wicked me this, and stave off the pot—give up your friend, and death find you not.”
“Eat me at will; my flesh is with rot—poisonous to witches cold or hot.”
“A winter stew it will be, rot or not—the pot is for rats, and they’ll like you hot.”
“This rhyming must end, for I must go—his name is Matt, and I never liked him anyway.”
Timothy French 