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She was yer postcard type of witch
Long black cloak and red striped hose
Pointy hat and straggly raggly hair
Even wart of requisite size on nose
Miaowly cat of evil demeanour
Balanced there on her broom
With a certain air of sang froid
As she steered around the room
But eye of toad and tongue of newt
Plus any spell known just couldn't right
That she couldn't fly by the moon
Cos she was so afeared of heights
She never made the witches ball
Never danced the Evil Tango
If one  just cant ride one's broomstick
There's no way known that one can go
So she sits at home in misery
Frantically searching for a spell
A charm a potion or incantation
To solve her perfectly dreadful hell
Oh she can curse with the best of Ďem
Cure warts and other various ills
But how can a witch be credible
When she's always having spills
How can a witch have pride
When she can't leave her room
To attend her monthly local coven
Cos she keeps falling off her broom

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Small Witch