The Witch

Her finger nails as huge as a vultures claws,
black hair as unkempt as a shaggy sheep dog.
Teeth jagged and pointed as a carpenters saw,
gin soaked breath as rancid as a November fog.

A cackle like the rattle of a predatory Magpie,
as sallow dull wrinkled parchment her facial skin.
As oft to her master on her broomstick she’d fly,
a few lonely hairs growing from her pointed chin.

To her black book of potions she constantly referred,
her eyes sunken as deep as hot coals in the snow.
She spat our her spells as her cauldron she stirred,
contemplating what evil her spells would bestow.

And off on her broomstick at midnight she’d fly,
with her black cat astride her ubiquitous broom.
Dreaming up evil as she circled the sky,
hoping to seal sum unfortunate’s doom.