Nancy is the Poet-of-the-Week for this week’s W3 Poetry Prompt #208, where she challenges us to write a poem in rhyming couplets.
Read the full prompt guidelines here
Nancy’s prompt: Rhyming recipes
Write a poem in rhyming couplets (two lines that rhyme) that gives instructions for making something.
Traditionally, “rhyming recipes” were used to help people remember how to prepare food. A classic example appears in Macbeth:
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog…
Your poem does not have to be about food. You can write a “recipe” for anything, such as:
- a drink or snack
- a science experiment
- a craft or DIY project
- a perfect day or relationship
- a mood, feeling, or life situation
Requirements:
- Use rhyming couplets throughout
- Give clear steps or instructions
- Be creative with what your “recipe” is for
Think of it as turning instructions into something memorable and playful through rhyme.
Pantomime
The Christmas pantomime is a peculiarly British theatre tradition, with roots stretching back to the stages of Georgian London. In panto lore, the villain always enters from stage left and the virtuous from stage right, and the whole thing revels in the cheerful absurdity of rhyming couplets.
So when Nancy set the prompt to write a recipe in couplets, it felt only natural to create a piece in which a wicked witch prepares her latest evil brew.
The Witch’s Brew
a wicked recipe
The Wicked Witch is brewing a potion of evil in a large cauldron, adding ingredients as she consults an ancient recipe book. A rat slave stands in attendance.
Add this, add that — what else to do?
A pound of salt and pepper to the stew.
A bit of this and a bit of that,
Fleas and a tail from an alley cat,
Chewing gum scraped off the street,
A mouldy turnip and four frogs feet,
Long toenails and a snake‑bite’s kiss —
I haven’t a clue how to cook any of this.
Add this, add that — what else to do?
Squeeze a green goblin till it turns bright blue,
Wave my hands and cast an evil spell.
O, I can do that — I can do that well.
Watch how my hands wave back and forth,
Waving, wafting for all they’re worth,
Swirling mist and streaming steam,
Churning god’s sweet dream to a scream.
Hahahah! my brew begins to boil —
Now’s the time to recoil.
The delicious cooking smell is putridly foul;
But it needs something else — it needs a howl,
And a vital ingredient that must be got.
I need a boy or girl to add to the pot.
Where can I get one of those, do you think?
If you know of one — give me a wink.
I’m sure there must be one nearby.
I don’t mind a baby — but it might cry.
Is anyone there? I can smell children.
Come closer now — look into my cauldron.
When I sniff…
I’m perceiving a whiff…
You cannot hide dearest children.
I’ll find you… capture you… and then,
When I’ve traced you by smell—
Boil you in my stew and all will be well.
Well, well, well! —
I know you’re there.
Oh no, we’re not!
Oh yes, you are!
I bid you hence, my ratty slave,
Bring me, from whence, all that I crave:
A little boy or a little girl,
A princely child or a churl.
Once I add them to my brew, it will be ready —
And for extra flavour — I’ll add a teddy.
Hahahah! give me that knife — my hands are steady.
Time to relish my powerful potion.
I also need to add suntan lotion —
We don’t want the skin to burn.
I must stir the spoon — let it churn, churn, churn.
I think that’s all on my recipe list.
Add a bottle of wine — let’s eat — get pissed.
—Lesley Scoble, April 2026
A little bit of personal history…
Here’s an old photo of me spouting off a few rhyming couplets to the Dame and Baron Hardup.
I’ve been fortunate to appear in a fair number of pantos over the years: Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk, Aladdin, Mother Goose, an untraditional Wizard of Oz, Dick Whittington, and Sleeping Beauty. My favourite principal role — the one I loved most — was Carabosse, the wicked witch in Sleeping Beauty. There is enormous fun in playing the villain and being booed at every performance.
Except for one performance at the Ashcroft Theatre when I wasn’t booed at all. By shifting my intonation and improvising a little with the script, I somehow managed to get the audience on the witch’s side. Heh, heh. I was annoyed with the Good Fairy (played by my sister), who’d been irritating me all day, so I leaned into the idea that she was a hopeless goody‑goody. At the walk‑down I received rapturous cheers — while the poor, pretty Good Fairy was booed. Haha! I did so enjoy that.
The company manager, however, was less amused. I received a stiff remonstrance and was warned never to do that again. I love live theatre.
My panto‑style rhyming couplets for this week’s W3 Prompt have put me in a reminiscent frame of mind about those old panto days. Brandy on the Humber retells an episode from that time.
Brandy on the Humber
A memory from my panto years
I was playing Carabosse at the New Theatre Hull, where we did two performances a day, with three on a Wednesday and Saturday. Mid‑run, I thought it would be nice to travel to see my sister, who lived in Lincoln at the time, on the Sunday day off. This involved a ferry trip across the river Humber. (The Humber Bridge wasn’t open.) I enjoyed the visit and set off on the Monday on the journey back to Hull in severe weather conditions.
The train I was on stopped at a station in the middle of nowhere and went out of commission, so I had to wait for another. The waiting room had a beautiful, cosy coal fire burning brightly — but it was full of passengers smoking in a thick, combustible cloud. I chose to wait outside on a freezing platform and endure a never‑ending wait in a blizzard. Eventually a train turned up to take my frozen, ‘icicled’ corpse to the ferry. I love ferry boats and the elation of watching the wake at the stern. It was cold.
I went inside to the café for a warming cup of tea, where I began to feel feverish and feared I was coming down with something. I took a sip, and a dramatic jolting lurch from the boat caused my cup to spill and cover my face in tea. The ferry suddenly stopped. It had gone aground on a sandbank. I looked at my watch, concerned I was cutting it fine to get to the theatre on time for the half. (There is a strict rule that artists must be in their dressing rooms 35 minutes before curtain‑up — enough time to dress in costume and apply stage make‑up.) If you’re not there for the half, there is a panic and your understudy might need to prepare to perform in your stead.
I began to sweat. Was it the fear of being aground in the middle of the Humber? Or was it the ever‑increasing sense that I’d caught the flu? The bar opened. I looked at my watch and feared I was going to be too late to get to the theatre. A drink might help me relax — though I would never normally drink before a performance — but we were marooned in the middle of a raging river in a blizzard. I ordered a large brandy. Then I ordered another. I was miserable at the disaster of being aground and not getting to the theatre on time. I also thought the brandy might soothe the flu symptoms.
As I drank, I wondered who my understudy was. It’s usually the poor company manager who has to learn all the roles as a fill‑in. The brandy was working. I began to feel okay about the ship sinking and missing my performance.
Then, with a sudden jolt, the ferry was free of the sandbank, and we were on our way.
Walking down the gangplank at the Hull dock, I was shocked to see the company manager waiting for me. A stern glare ushered me to his car, whereupon I was whisked at an alarming rate to the stage door. I ran (staggered) to my dressing room — plonked on my false nose while my dresser did the rest.
I opened the panto in a puff of green smoke. In this first scene, where I cast spells and add ingredients to a steaming cauldron, I was usually active and animated, swooping about the stage, but in this performance I decided a static stance, leaning on the cauldron for support, was the best place to be.
Halfway through my slurring speech, the Good Fairy was supposed to enter from the flies (the gantry up at the top of the proscenium arch). I never envied her — I dread heights. She had to wait, perched on a half‑moon, to descend to the stage in a magical entrance.
I leant heavily on my cauldron and waited for her entrance, and my next cue. And I waited. And waited. I repeated her cue line.
Then, from the wings, I heard an urgent whisper: “Pssst, the moon is stuck. The moon is stuck!” The stage management were telling me that the Good Fairy (Diana Gibson) was unable to make her appearance.
I lurched to the side of the stage at Prompt Corner and gasped, “Whaaaat‽”
I had to fill in and improvise and stir in more ingredients.
Eventually the moon descended and the Good Fairy arrived to save the night.
Oh, by the way, the panto only started five minutes late. Phew! I love live theatre.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you, Nancy for inspiring me.
Thank you, David, as always.
LesleyScoble.com 
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