I often go on bitter nights To Wotan’s oak in the quiet glade With dark powers to weave a union - The runic letters the moon makes with its magic spell And all who are full of impudence during the day Are made small by the magic formula! They draw shining steel - but instead of going into combat, They solidify into stalagmites. So the false ones part from the real ones I reach into a nest of words Then give to the good and just With my formula blessing and prosperitymedia