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A wizened witch of
wizardry,
With warts and wooden teeth,
And weird-like cries, like banshee ghosts,
Lived west of Warlock Heath.
The Heath was wet,
with winds so wild,
The witch had withered wings,
With waffled edges like a bat,
Which flapped like wilting things.
She tried to wrest
the winds so wild,
Her withered wings to soar,
But neither which the witch would use,
Would waft the winds galore.
And so she wished a
sheaf of wheat,
To whisk her to the sky,
By whether want or willing so,
It didn't make her fly.
Alas, we wondered
what she'd do,
To waltz along the wind,
To work her wicked, worldly spells,
Instead on earth be pinned.
We watched the wench
with withered wings,
We watched her wilt and fall,
We wondered if she'd ever win,
We watched her hit the wall.
The worried witch
had had her fill,
She wouldn't have her way,
And so she wisely weighed the odds,
And on the ground would stay.
But wait,
what's that? - Was that a stick,
With wheat wound at the end?
Would that propel the wizened witch,
Upon the winds to wend?
A wonderment, a
winsome way,
The wizened witch has found,
To win the battle with the wind,
And lift up off the ground.
Whenever now we walk
along,
And feel the winds of gloom,
If we would see that wizened witch,
She's riding on a broom.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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