No witch would pick up broom this week,
save to commit savage murder on a cobweb or two.
perhaps create pre-genocide on that semisentient colony of dust
which has been gathering by the fireplace,
hoping for the ideological justification for Cinderella.
Flying brooms, my darling, are not merely for tourists, but LAST year’s tourists;
let’s not be chintzy,
and we all know that eye of newt gets you spacier than Wavy Gravy’s genuine all-Owlsley Midnight Special
(oh, shine Her light!)
and shall we just forget about what happens to princes with toes of frog?
(Where SHALL we get Mare’s Sweat on a day like today? Oh, it’s all going wrong!)
the fashionable, diabolical Warlock, flying aloft with the aid of fat whose rendering I recommend (as a kind soul) you not think about at all–will wear a nice suit and a silly costume, and look like all the rest of us five billion fools, keeping powers concealed for himself and himself alone.
You might meet him some night; there are a million dark alleys; he’s worked to make sure.
I’m certain you’ll have a lot to talk about.
Briefly.
Stay off your Broom. The Warlock is not fond of rivals, and is likely to get himself killed within a week.
…but until that week is up…
Anyone arrogant to fly without a prop deserves what they get.
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