CURSE SONG OF THE SPRITES

We're not there, that's just air, that glimpse of wing you saw right there.
That dying cow, that wasn't us, so don't you cuss, and don't you dare
Cross-the-sprites-and-curse-their-spite-and-make-your-hand-a-stony-fist.
You can't punch us, we don't exist, we're only mist,
And that was just the wind that hissed.
We don't care, and we weren't there, and for a dare, we would never snap that chair
And-leave-it-looking-like-it-was-perfectly-all-right-and-wait-for-someone-big-and-fat-and-old-to-put-their-lardy-fat-behind-on-it-and-SMOOSH-BANG-HA-HA-HA-!-SMASH-!!!-the-entire-thing-shatters-into-tiny-smithereens-and-then-they-lay-land-upon-the-stony-floor-and-break-their-jaw-and-fuss-and-roar-and-cry-until-they-cry-no-more…
And that was not the eerie sound of fairy laughter when they cried. And if they said it was, they lied.
That dying child, that wasn't us, so don't you cuss, and don't you dare
Cross-the-sprites-and-curse-their-spite-and-make-your-hand-a-stony-fist.
You can't punch us,
We don't exist,
We're only mist,
And that was just the wind that hissed.