Doomed children crawl into her evil trap,
By spirits drawn to her accursed lap,
Sprites and goblins do her bidding chores,
The bubbling pot remains the wicked cause,
And so when children choose to run away,
They're hidden by the disappearing day,
Their flesh and bones make quite the magic broth,
And cloak the witch in sheets of wicked cloth,
Their goodness burns amidst the crackling flame,
No trace, on her, of pity or of shame,
And so the weeping child is put to sleep,
And cruel spells rise from where he once did weep.
* * *
Just bashed something out quickly! Wanted to have some fun with iambic pentameter
That sort of shit excites me...