Witching KateA Poem by David Lewis PagetWhenever I went with winsome Kate She’d say, ‘I’m a witch, and that,’ And while in bed, with love in my head, All she would do was chat. She’d chatter about the latest spell She’d found in her old Grimoire, While I would lie, and dream of her thighs And hope she’d surprise me there. And so she did, a number of times Each time that I’d reach for her, Like shifting sand, I’d find in my hand A handful of p***y fur, The black cat under the counterpane Would wriggle and spit and scratch, And I’d withdraw, away from its paw I’d find it more than a match. Then she’d go on about frogs and spawn While up above in her flat, And hanging down from her ceiling fan The nastiest looking bat. ‘I hope that’s not going to drop on us,’ I’d say, but she didn’t care, It often lay on her pillow case All tangled up in her hair. ‘Wouldn’t you like to make witching love?’ I’d say to her, in despair, While she would lie, with spells in her eye And some that would really scare. She said she needed to concentrate And would make some terrible moans, They seemed to come from the mantlepiece Where she kept a pile of bones. She called them Fred, he was certainly dead And he stared at us from above, She’d cry, and say that there was a day When he was her one true love. But he’d fallen into her pickle jar One day, when casting a spell, And she’d pulled him out, too late, no doubt, He’d pickled his way to hell. I bid farewell to my witching one Before I suffered his fate, I’d prayed for love to heaven above Knowing it was too late. She’d filled a cauldron with toads and newts Then turned and reached for my hand, But I had fled, the moment she said, ‘Now all I need is a man!’ David Lewis Paget
© 2017 David Lewis PagetReviews
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