Now That's What I Call Magic Poem by Mark Heathcote

Magic is something you make
Through hard work and diligence
No potions like tongue-of-snake
It isn't evil wistfulness
Some old witch in a cabin
Her head lay back in bracken
Some are thin or fatten
That good or bad things might happen.

Magic is something honest,
Something true & pure
That's never despondent
Doesn't hide they're being demure
You can be compassionate
And be equally talented
Not the slightest bit tragic
Now, that's what I call magic.