Ode To A Witch And The Pros Of Spontaneous Combustion Poem by ian hall

Oh dry, scaly, warty witch
Do you imagine yourself;
as beautiful and pure?
And victimized?
and intelligent?
And righteous?

The blood has left your scrunched up face
Leaving only squiggle marks over your buried eyes
and you can barely speak or breathe
but for a cuss and a curse

What intimidates thee?
Is it the truth?
Is it transparency?

Why do you pretend?
Drinking Coffee speaking all intellectual
With that pompous twang

I see your deceit
Your lies
Your game
your pretence
your uncontrolled ego
eating you up
setting you up for your burning demise

don't drag me into it

I wish you well
As you get smaller and smaller
I no longer see you
And if I ever think about you
I know the evil that brought you undone,
is contagious