The stench from that alien dysentery manure is something awful.

(Why are you growing straw?)

I imagine his waifish grey body trembling with the terrible withdrawl symptoms that come with such a drastic metabolic switch–from a diet of God-breath and starlight to that of a Dublin streetperson. He twitches spasmodically in his too-small chickenwire cage while you fawn over your precious patch of straw.

I hear him now–begging for freedom in a language of slow cooing tones and piping chords. In response, you turn up the Mamma Mia soundtrack and unwrap another burger. He wails something hopeless and diminished.

Although similar in outward appearance witchseed and frogspawn are two totally unrelated materials.

The Gin Lady claims they are not witchseed at all, but watercrystals. Rubbish, I know a witch infestation when I see one.