First we begin to put it in,
The broth composed of ire and sin
Will fill our hot and coppered pot.
(From iron gravefence it was wrought).

We pull dead bees from old plum trees,
And pluck their stingers with a tweeze,
Then they will stew within our brew
Until it forms a grand green goo!

This caterpillar fits the bill, or
Will right after we distill her.
Birchy bark will take the spark
That sets it burning after dark.

Then with the heat of burning peat
The whole is cooked 'til it's complete!
The smoke is dreadful, foul and fretful,
Don't breathe it or you'll get a headfull!

We fan the air in dark despair,
Don face masks from our underwear
Yet quite in vain was all our pain,
We've got to do it all again!