A Witch’s Spell

My nose has two warts,

My right eye no more,

My teeth a strong yellow,

My tongue gone all sore.

 

My cone hat is wonky,

My cauldron boiled out,

Oh, I need some magic,

Yes, without a doubt.

 

My voice is now weak,

My broom cannot fly,

Once I was young,

Now my magic’s run dry.

 

But here on the shelf,

All covered in grime,

Is my old spell book,

The strongest of all time.

 

I turn to page thousand,

Chapter seventy-five,

Spell fifty will ensure,

That we old witch-folk thrive!

 

A blade of chewed grass,

From the stomach of a goat,

The wind from the windpipe,

Of a warthog’s throat!

 

A tear from the eyeball,

Of a man-eating frog,

An insect from the bark,

Of a hollow log.

 

A clipping of a toenail,

A burp from a toad,

Some sweat from an armpit,

And some muck from the road.

 

Danger from an adder,

Instinct from a fly,

Beauty from the peacock,

Vastness from the sky.

 

Stealthy as a spider,

Strong as an ox,

Speedy as an eagle,

As cunning as a fox.

 

Muscles from a foot,

Chopped straight off the mat,

Will keep you neat,

If you’ve a crooked hat.

 

To get back my good tongue,

I need a horse’s spittle,

Mixed with toad’s ooze,

And juice from a nettle.

 

Tarmac from a pavement,

To fix my old broomstick,

Boiled in a swamp,

With a tomcat’s tick.

 

To get back my eye,

It’s a lunatic’s drool,

Only quite enough,

To fill a swimming pool.

 

A chip of rotting wood,

To whiten my teeth,

Or was it a bruise,

Or some decayed meat?

 

Get some fresh wood,

Arrange them in a ring,

Then start a fire,

With my neighbour’s hamstring.

 

I dump all the ingredients,

Into my old stew pot,

And after dancing and chanting,

I’ll reveal my plot.

 

A few sips and slurps,

Of my revolting mixture,

Shall turn me young again,

I’ll be quite the picture.

 

And this is how,

With my constant persistence,

I’ve made myself,

The most charming woman in existence!

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