The Wicked Witch Poem by Tango

There was this witch,
who lived by the sea,
she was the wickedest witch,
wicked, wicked, as can be.
At night when the moon was riding high,
off, out on her broomstick,
she would fly.
Through the towns, and villages,
she would ride,
peering through windows,
trying to decide.

On whom to cast her next wicked spell.
When she spied someone fast asleep,
making herself thin,
through a crack in the window,
she would creep.
Waving her hands,
her spell she would chant,
whilst doing a little dance.

Higgely, haggely, hate,
at night when the clock strikes eight.
Into a slimey green toad will you turn,
and for every night there after,
in the fires of hell will you burn.

Then off on her broomstick she would go,
laughing, and cackling ever so.