The Witch
by Jack Prelutsky
She comes by night, in fearsome flight,
In garments black as pitch,
The queen of doom upon her broom,
The wild and wicked witch,
A cackling crone with brittle bones
And desiccated limbs,
Two evil eyes with warts and sties
And bags about the rims,
A dangling nose, ten twisted toes
And folds of shriveled skin,
Cracked and chipped and crackled lips
That frame a toothless grin.
She hurtles by, she sweeps the sky
And hurls a piercing screech.
As she swoops past, a spell is cast
On all her curses reach.
Take care to hide when the wild witch
rides
To shriek her evil spell.
What she may do with a word or two
Is much too grim to tell.
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