Round about the cauldron go
In the poisoned thoughts you throw.
Revenge is on your wounded mind,
Frustration with him hath made you blind.
You conjure some unkindness anew,
Just like the ugliness that he spewed,
Backlash he earned of nightly mare
For fair is foul and foul is fair.
Perfectly gathered ingredients poured,
In the potion from your cutting board,
Insults, rebuttals, rifts in his logic,
To pay him back his own narcotic.
Burning, bubbling, toil, and troubling,
For he deserves the pain you’re suffering.
Simmering, it almost overflows,
Your witchy plan within you glows.
Just when you’re ready to deliver,
Your conscience twitches, twinges, shivers.
Discomfort washes over you,
For this you aren’t accustomed to.
Although, be he of cruelest glut,
He’s not Macbeth nor you Hecate.
For his downfall, if downfall there’ll be,
Is not your responsibility.
Taking off your pointy hat,
You wonder what you’re looking at.
A brew you stewed of vengeful filth,
Disgusts you; you were not thyself.
You unlight the fires of your scorn,
Allow yourself a time to mourn.
To hurt him because he hurt you,
It seemed the justified thing to do.
He’ll never hear the words you prepared,
Never listen, never aware.
You won’t point out his hypocrisies;
Only by his epiphany would he see.
The clock clangs a lately hour
And you’re amazed you gave him power
Of what you could’ve let, succumbing,
Almost something wicked this way coming.
Though the temptation was brewing,
The thought of the eyeballish skewering
Exhausts your poor thoughts to horror.
For vindictiveness you are a deplorer.
In good order you let go,
And rock the cauldron to and fro.
Spilling vile and sourcerous contents,
Now libertined of your resentments!
An eye-for-an-eye was childish
So you summon up a different dish.
Clasping your hands, for peace, you pray
For both of you ‘til the end of your days.