What you got in the fires
it smells
what demonic creations of bombastic heatheness is brewing?
I mean, Hell, what poems you got stewing?
Are you weaving nymph tails into virgins?
chanting in a pointy hat?
What is in that double double cauldron bubbling?
Up those sheepskin cloaks and plaid twills
are eye of newts? tails of bat? hair of dog?
What herbs are you hiding?
You, you pagan goddess, in the mist  of your fire
are the stars and control of the morning.
I knew it.
You are brewing
Olde English "800".