Wizards and Warlocks; Sorcerers, Mages!
Adepts and Savants; wizened old Sages!
Over the hills they scurry in droves!
Over the dales they travel in rows!

A gorlöck, a fusswotz, two trogs and a rímple!
A muko, three pandrats, and twenty-eight gimples!
From what do they hurry? For what do they pine?
My heart harbors hopes that they be not malign!

In stillness I whimper, in fleetness they rove—
—my kettle, it boils! from its place on the stove!
In a bolt to brew Yorkshire[1] my door remains open
And the fae[2] (in their cunning) come suddenly lopin’

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