When you’re unwell or wracked with pain, do not think to tarry.
Come straight away to find relief from Ye Olde Apothecary.
Welcome, friend. Do not fear. I invite you to come in.
Tell me all your troubles; when I’ve learnt them I’ll begin.
I’ll mix the cure that you will need; here’s a tana leaf to start,
Plus a pinch of sulfur and two drams of dragon heart.
Now three drops of martyr’s blood and a gnome’s tongue washed and diced,
Add ten grains of Dead Sea salt and Grendel’s liver keenly sliced.
Lost god’s eye, Elysian heather, hallowed oil, seraph feather.
Arsenic in measure and a dash of hemlock, too.
Wolfsbane for its flavor and its petals’ brilliant hue.
The antler of a mighty hart, august and finely ground,
And the larva of a scarab, sautéed until its browned.
Last breath, dying wish, widow’s tears, true love’s kiss.
Boil it, boil it, boil it down until it’s hot and strong and clear.
Now drink it, drink it—swiftly now!—for efficacy without peer.
That warmth you feel is my cure surging through your veins,
Bringing needed solace to your agonies and pains.
But should you choke and gasp, and fall dead upon my door mat,
Worry not, my sickly friend—I can make a cure for that.