The Witch

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The Witch

Soft as lamb’s ear

Sharp as honey locust thorn

She prowls around at midnight

The time when witches are born

She gathers her nightshade in a purple, quilted bag

With her cat by her side, they all think she is mad

She smiles to herself and hums a soft tune

The owls come to greet her in the dark of the moon

She likes it this way

Being left alone and a bit feared

They find her when they need her

It’s been that way for years

When justice isn’t served or love goes unrequited

When the baby needs healed or the old man’s scared of dyin

They’ll venture to her with payment of choice

She’ll do what needs doing, without raising her voice

When the work is done

She’ll disappear just as quick

And they’ll say once again

Stay away from the witch

 

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