She formed her friends up
With words of a local pub.
The self-righteous claws stretching like a cub.
There is a man swimming in her cup.

Her medicine is to tell a fortune,
But it is a worthless potion.
As the wisdom lacks principles
Like wishful dreams of people.

It is a dark brew of King Constantine,
In her recipe of doom.
Why handle such gloom,
If the light stand before her?
Is she like a bat
Or am I like a mole?