Take three pints of white vinegar
let from the veins of your old god mud.
Note that the name of the star – a prisoner
in your fist-pocket – is Wormwood,
and that Blodeuwedd, in all likelihood,
was made to be meadowsweet.
Mix with marjoram, wild and no-good,
unheeding of sage advice from peat.
Eat victory with the jaws of defeat,
wash a face only a mother can love. Repeat.