[Intro: Piano and jazz-inflected bagpipes, restrained and atmospheric] [Verse 1: Calm male baritone] Ninety grams of oats, ground rough and coarse, A pinch of salt, no need for more. Into the pot, let cold water flow, Just barely covered, ready to go. [Pre-Chorus] Take the wooden spoon, Hold it in your hand. Keep it moving round and round, Just as the old rules planned. [Chorus] Stir like thou wilt, Clockwise, counterclockwise. Stir like thou wilt, Who decides what’s wrong or right? The oats grow thick, the waters still, A quiet pot, a stubborn will. Stir like thou wilt, This kitchen bends to my will. [Verse 2: Subtle harmonic tension begins] An old Scots tale, absurd, they say: Stir with the sun, keep Hell away. But turn against the clock, and legends warn, The Devil may come before the dawn. Just kitchen lore, a tale for fools. I make my own laws, I set my rules. So let the spoon turn the other way. What harm could one old legend do today? [Chorus] Stir like thou wilt, Clockwise, counterclockwise. Stir like thou wilt, Who decides what’s wrong or right? The oats grow thick, the waters still, A quiet pot, a stubborn will. Stir like thou wilt, This kitchen bends to my will. [Instrumental: Bagpipes weave through dark jazz piano and bass, gradually growing more unsettled] [Verse 3: Calm, almost conversational] Keep the heat low, let time unfold, Eighteen minutes, or so I’m told. Stir through the silence, smooth and slow, Let no impatient hunger show. A spoon of lemon curd, perhaps one more, A golden sweetness to finish the chore. The pot is empty, the bowl is clean. Nothing unusual, nothing unseen. [Final Chorus: Darker harmonies, restrained intensity] Stir like thou wilt, Clockwise, counterclockwise. Stir like thou wilt, Who decides what’s wrong or right? The oats grow cold, the fire burns low, There’s nothing left for Hell to know. Stir like thou wilt, I made the rules. I chose the road. [Outro: Male baritone, spoken, calm] Eighteen minutes. Three times six. Oats and water. Salt. Nothing more. The spoon is still. The fire is low. [Long silence. All instruments stop.] [Female voice, whispered, cold and intimate. No singing, no melody, no vibrato.] You turned the spoon. [Pause] Now let me in. [Complete silence] [Bagpipes return alone, dark and unresolved.]
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