Potions' Master
Scores of pain to make him wince
Searing blades shred herbs to mince
Using weakness to survive
Twisting truth my lies contrive;
I am the Half Blood Prince.
Snape
A glance from me will make him wither
His greasy hair will up and slither
From his gauntlet face—
A bloody disgrace.
To hit this slug, I would not dither!
Guess who!
The gent with ladies on his arm
Does his best to amp up the charm
For when the date starts ending
He'll want kisses for sending
Them home in the early morn!
