A discovery times ago,
Of spells and hats, sticks and stones,
Scorched earth (and flesh) charred black the snow,
As bones were broke for mud thrown.

Civilised though we reclaimed us - just.
Yeast left to bread, until proven at least.
Yet the hands of many pluck stitches to crust.

Today trials echo of the years,
Whence witch blood spilt pure as tears,
Whilst callous crocodiles weep and crow,
With their fifteen in-line to Show.