the dour witches douse their hair

in burgund’ wine of vine so sweet

in oaken casks of forest fair

feet brushed in earthen moss of peat

–

bewitching verse beyond the light

a fiendish curse upon their heads

sharp cackles rise and bring with fright

such horrid fancies rife with dread

–

in dead of night they come in force

to claim the blood of those who sought

to savage them and change the course

of damned men and women distraught

–

alas they tried but were dismayed

by the stalwart Witcher Galdric

by whose own hand that theirs was stayed

with strength of a raging auroch