Witches in Britches
Witches in britches with finely knit stitches,
Meeting to greet the high queen,
Pink hanging petals with nettle that itches,
Arrayed and displayed on the green.
Magic in motion — we’re making a potion!
A balm like a charm for the skin,
The queen has a notion her witches need lotion,
For nettles that cause such chagrin!
Here at her mansion with garden expansion,
Where koi fish play coy in the ponds,
The witches all scamper as garments get damper,
As splashes leap over the fronds.
Away, past the byre, we’ll stoke up the fire!
The witches crowd round the proud queen,
Orange flame dancing in tongues licking higher,
In service to dark gods unseen.
The cauldron aboil with its bright bubbling oil,
As herbs and concoctions go in!
The black cat sits purring at stirring so royal,
The queen and her witches a din!
Raucous and cackling, the bright fire crackling,
The potion for lotion in motion,
A new brand of remedy here they are tackling,
And hence, this loud potion commotion!
Dancing and prancing, a hypnotic chanting,
With witches in hands clasping tight,
The queen in high fervency, graceful, enchanting,
The cat looking sleek in the light.
I’ve finished the potion, we’re primed to begin,
The witches calm down to a hush,
Dip your hands in the pot, rub it onto your skin,
And please don’t be shy, do not blush!
Off come the britches adorning the witches,
So blithely slung onto the ground,
On goes the lotion for nettle that itches,
Sighs of relief come the sound.
I say I feel better, aye, now that I’m wetter,
With lotion made by the high queen,
So happy in fact that I feel like her debtor,
The itching is never so keen!
In wide celebration and bold protestation,
The witches’ skin perfect in sooth,
The queen stood a hero, their itches at zero,
An end to complaining uncouth!
The witches restored all their britches with speed,
And sang to their queen through the night,
We love you with gladness, we love you indeed,
Our itches are gone — we’re all right!
The very next morning with purple light dawning,
The witches flew off in the air,
Some of them yawning but grateful and fawning,
At Prue, their high queen, debonair…
AD Lovkis, 21/08/25
adamdaniel 