The WitchesA Poem by emipoemiWhat a band of ruthless witches: Wicked, ugly, pickled itches With such grave and ghastly twitches, Stitching binds, unbinding stitches, Slitting throats to gather riches For their slimy storage ditches, Cackling in the highest pitches, Clashing when spells suffer glitches- But which is the witch here which is On the whole the queen of snitches?
Most dark and secret be these hags- These mischief-making
scalawags- With warty fingers, saggy bags, Disheveled hair, and straggly rags, Who run about in zigs and zags Beneath the jutting jagged jags Amidst the crusty craggy crags Around the dusky musty quags Where dusty smog conceals the snags, And stifles all with wheezing gags.
Rain in bitter torrents drenches All the crags and muddy trenches, Leaking down to where it quenches All the thirsts of those with wrenches Stirring cauldrons of bad stenches, Putting potions on their benches, Harrowing whoever blenches With their claim as überwensches (Though they can’t tell bass from tenches, Nor have any clue what French is).
Beneath the bleak and hazy hills, The cauldron’s smoke their cavern fills As each witch tends to selfish wills, And are such hard-to-swallow pills, Who rail, and rage, and rat in shrills, And conjure streams of hellish ills When any disregards their skills, And spoils a potion, sparks some spills From cans of quills or jars of gills- They toil in bubbles, troubling thrills.
So which witch is the queen of snitches? I say each one amidst these witches. -EDP © 2018 emipoemiReviews
|
StatsRelated WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|