How itchy can one witch get? (Feathertale)
Sitting in my castle gloomy,
Feeling old and rather rheumy,
Thinking of the peasants beaten,
Scrumptious children I have eaten,
Nothing evil left to do or see.
Getting old (two hundred eighty),
Every sagging bit more weighty,
Worst of all, I'm oh so smelly
Covered in bat guts, newt jelly,
A shame a bath would spell catastrophe.
Centuries of grime so sickly,
Crawling bugs make me feel tickly,
Thoughts of bathing drive me crazy,
Air around me dank and hazy,
Could a bit of water dangerous be?
Tempting thoughts of one good washing,
Dreaming of the soapy sloshing.
Dive into a bath all bubbly,
Never more to feel so troubly;
Cloak and broomstick all that's left of me.
* Accepted for publication in Fearthertale , May 2010