Witch’s curse, poem.


Dark skies

witch flies

to her home

on a broom

warts on her face

gloves made of lace

black cat on the table

beside the pot ladle

mixing a potion

devoid of emotion

standing chuckling

like an ugly duckling

thinking up a spell

to raise hell

for an innocent person

she mixes while cursin’

with a witch’s curse

you’ll end up in a hearse

Can be seen at poets corner

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