The Witch whose broomstick ran away
This morn, to serve a sorcerer, did not grieve
Although the coven was midnight today
She had a secret up her witchy sleeve.
First she set down her curse on besom lost
That soon as any spell of sorcerer’s mind
Was cast upon it, there would be a cost
For it would swell and multiply in kind
Break and destroy the thievish sorcerer’s house.
By early evening she heard story that
He blamed his poor apprentice – but a mouse –
Caught in a witch’s vengeance, and her cat
Amused by that, most readily agreed
For all know cats are born aloft by grins
To serve the broomless witch as wingless steed,
It was in Cheshire, where this tale begins.
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