The Witching Hour

When the night streets are austere when none stirs and speaks,

When the moon and stars vanish beneath the snow congealed peaks.

When the air is thick as if it’s holding its breath,

When everything around seems forlorn, vanquished with death.

 

All at once the gusty trees awoke from the whimsical spell,

There was a vicious cackle from behind the high hill swells.

And without content to wait any longer, out gawped a threesome of filthy witches,

The set of them had ghastly limps and hideous unruly twitches.

 

They smirked and muttered with their grime caked binders,

As they chewed at and spat at and sat at their grinders.

Stirring around the pot, at something truly ugly and unobtrusive,

Grunting about ingredients cheap and inexpensive.

 

“Eyes of toad and lizards tail

I’ m quiet sure it’s not to fail

Horns of ox and cow and bull

Tear drops sad, three cups full

Dead man’s nail clippings,

And fried snail snipping’s

Here I mix and there I stir

The perfect remedy for cross eye blur.”

 

 

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