Woman in the Woods
The woman in the woods, we’re convinced she’s a witch,
Lives in a hut daubed in tar, bleached bones and black pitch
Her clothing without doubt is well, a little bit strange,
As it seems she never ever… ever wants to change.
She has a long black robe, a pointed midnight hat
And draped round her neck is a flea peppered cat.
There are three fat wart’s living right on her nose,
And through mud concealed boots poke out scaly green toes.
She has fingers like twigs from a haunted tree
And her breath smells like phew, years old celery
As for the food she eats, well this is where it gets worse
She munches and crunches course by course
Starting out with crane flies in a maggoty broth,
That she digests with glee, and then she will scoff
Black rat en croute, a well-known witch delicacy
That scuttles, and scampers about in her belly
She then has twenty fat termites on caterpillar mash
Followed by fermented slug and sea snail goulash
You’d think by this time her gut would be grumbling
But no, she still has room for her favourite pudding
She’ll make millipede custard, and then what she’ll do
Is put it in a pitcher and serve – it – with - YOU!