"It was far too easy to slip into careless little cruelties, thinking that the rules of right and wrong didn't apply to you. At the end of that road was you sitting alone dribbling in a gingerbread house, growing warts on your nose."
''Those fingers in my hair
That sly come-hither stare
That strips my conscience bare
And I've got no defense for it
The heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do?
'cause it's witchcraft, wicked witchcraft
And although I know it's strictly taboo...''
Doctor: Ah yes! Now that you mention it, that [portal] is witchcraft. Yes, yes, yes, witchy witchraft! Hello, hello in there! Hello, am I talking to the Wicked Witch of the Well?
Clara: (mutters) Why am I the witch? (shouting) Hello?
Doctor: Clara. Hi. Hello, hello. Would you mind telling these prattling mortals to get themselves begone?
Doctor: Yes, tiny bit more colour...
All right. Prattling mortals, off you...pop...or I'll...turn you all into...frogs!
Out on the bog sits a moldy old shack,
A graveyard out front and a swamp in the back,
The creature who lives there personifies death,
She'll curdle your blood with the smell of her breath,
Wrapped up in rags and a tattered old hood,
She walks with a cane made of twisted black wood,
A feared necromancer and caster of curses,
She really enjoys putting people in hearses.
Blessed with a face that can drive men insane,
A body by joke and a sinister brain,
Her feet can peel wallpaper when they're exposed,
Gangrene and fungus infesting her toes,
She spends all her evenings creating disease,
Conjuring larvae and maggots to please,
Enormous pupae she constantly breeds,
On disinterred bodies they suckle and feed
— Ghoul, "Maggot Hatchery"