[Intro — Slow upright bass, dusty piano, rain against the shop window. A weary female contralto speaks over the music.] Next customer. Yes, the curse is extra. No, I cannot make your ex develop a sudden and inexplicable fondness for municipal plumbing. …Take a number. [Verse 1 — Deadpan, conversational] The first one wants a love spell cast, To make her husband faithful at last. I ask if he’s been untrue before. She says, “No, but he looked at a waitress before...” The next wants beauty, youth, and fame, and says the side effects of aging are not her game. “No warts, no wrinkles, no strange pale hue, And could you make my sister ugly too?” I grind the sage. I stir the pot. I charge for what the customers forgot. The moon is waning, my feet are sore. And someone’s left a goat outside my door. [Chorus — Dry, lightly swinging, backing vocals murmuring “root, root, root”] It’s the art of the root, the craft of the brew, The ancient old magic of doing what you’re asked to do. A pinch of despair and a teaspoon of spite, Two business days for your hex to take flight. You want eternal youth? That’s a premium rate. You want him to love you? I’m booked until eight. I’ve wisdom, I’ve herbs, I’ve a raven named Newt— But I cannot fix stupid with the art of the root. [Verse 2 — Piano becomes slightly more animated] A gentleman asks for a potion of wealth, But he won’t sacrifice anything, not even his health. “No blood, no hair, no sentimental attachment.” I offer a suggestion. He calls it black magic. A duchess demands that her pores disappear, And that everyone else grow a third ear. Her budget is modest, her standards divine. She asks if the ingredients come cruelty-free. A farmer wants rain for his neighbor’s estate, So his crops will drown and his own appreciate. I tell him that karma is terribly real. He asks if I take payment in unmarked veal. [Spoken aside — A tired sigh] I do not. I have mentioned this. Twice. [Chorus — More rhythm, still delivered with weary restraint] It’s the art of the root, the craft of the brew, The ancient old magic of doing what you’re asked to do. A dash of bad judgment, a handful of bile, And please leave a review if you’ve liked my hexing style. You want your dead husband to call you each night? That’s necromancy, darling. Different department, right. I’ve wisdom, I’ve herbs, I’ve a raven named Newt— But I cannot fix stupid with the art of the root. [Verse 3 — Darker chords, the witch grows increasingly exasperated] A student wants power to conquer the land, But can’t read the warning I put in his hand. He drinks the whole vial, then turns bright blue. He says, “This is not what I asked you to do!” A bride wants a curse on her mother-in-law, With plausible deniability under the law. I ask for the target’s full name and birth date. She says, “Can you make it look like a heart attack?” I put down my pestle. I stare at the wall. I consider the swamp. I consider them all. But rent must be paid, and the roof’s sprung a leak. So I smile like a saint and say, “How many weeks?” [Bridge — Sparse piano, intimate and completely exhausted] I learned from my mother, who learned from her own, The secrets of roots and the turning of bone. We bargained with spirits, we spoke to the dead, We knew which mushrooms would fill you with dread. We never prepared for the modern demand: “Can you make me go viral? I’ve got a small brand.” A man wants his horoscope altered for free. A child wants a dragon. The dragon wants tea. And somewhere, my grandmother’s ghost shakes her head. She says, “Burn down the shop.” I say, “Not till the mortgage is paid.” [Verse 4 — A little more swagger, still dry and understated] So here are the rules, which I’ve written in ink: Don’t drink the green bottle. Don’t lick the sink. No refunds on curses, no swaps on a soul. And please stop requesting a discount for trolls. The pentagram’s crooked? I’ll straighten it, dear. Your familiar’s possessed? That’ll cost you this year. You’ve brought me a jar full of questionable goo? Please label it clearly. I’ve got potions to do. [Final Chorus — Full cabaret swing, restrained choir harmonies] It’s the art of the root, the craft of the brew, The ancient old magic of billing it through. A little black salt and a whole lot of nerve, I give you the service you probably deserve. You want to be gorgeous? You want to be rich? You want your old boss turned into a literal bitch? I’ll take your gold, sign the form, stir the pot— And remind you that miracles cost quite a lot. I’ve wisdom, I’ve herbs, I’ve a raven named Newt, Three centuries’ experience and sensible boots. I’ve faced down the Devil. I’ve outwitted the Fates. But I cannot make you read the terms and conditions. [Outro — Music fades to a single plucked bass note] [Spoken, utterly exhausted] Next customer. …Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s the goat again.
