Witches Woods

 

The dreary Witches Woods,
just outside of town. The place your
parent’s told you to stay away from.  

There’s been a curious green glow
spangled through the trees. It was spotted
at night from the old wagon road.  

Crazy  Old Man Peter, said he saw it all,
with his stone white-dead eye,
and the deleterious vibrating in his mind.

He said there’s late night cackling and
sounds Satanic in nature, blood-chilling evil
moans, sharp and piercing through the rattling leaves.

Fog rolls in quickly as the Sun sets,
bathing the grounds in soupy mists,
tendrils of ghostly arms wave eerily.

Black cats scream and hell hounds
gnash and snarl while supernatural
footsteps trudge formlessly through the brush.

The bluish-green flickering glow of brimstone campfires,
warming great caldrons of witches brew, eye of Newt,
and collected nightmares.

Adorned with dead leaf laurel crowns,
skeletons dance in rings,
chanting lipless ancient incantations.

We can hear their hell-mouthed words
whispering on the late cold breeze in the
scattering and skittering of dead leaves.

Don’t go near the dreary Witches Woods,
stay home in your beds and use the blankets to
cover your heads.

They can’t get you that way,
or so, that’s what I’ve been told.