The woods still hold their magic;
mischievously they call
Our addiction is quite tragic
it often drives us up the wall

Thrice a week we head towards
a clearing in the trees
Light a woodless fire
and enjoy the eerie breeze

We're not sure why we do it
but we don our pointy hats
and on our way, I hate to say
kidnap the neighbours' cats

Sometimes we get a black one
but a siamese will do
or a ginger or a dark gray
helps us do what we must do

Quite often we'll just walk there
as most have failed the flying test
Homemade broomsticks are quite shady
Asda's own we find are best

We've yet to get a cauldron
Argos are always out of stock
so we've settled for a frying pan
which doubles as a wok

But with cloaks bulk-bought from ebay
we do try to look the part
Our broken noses from poor flying
sends us off to a good start

As modern crones we give a twist
to that ancient double double
and paint on all our boils and warts
Yes, we take the time and trouble

But there's ketchup in our sorcery
less hassle in our hex;
Leaves us much more time for mischief
and for Health and Safety checks

We opt out of the dangerous stuff
Like sourcing toads and baboon's blood
No point risking life and limb
when sliced slugs are just as good

We've cut out hemlock-picking
we've agreed that's rather daft
Pre-bought herbs and the odd nettle
makes our blend of charm and craft

I must admit we're not as good
as our forebears in the past
We might get the odd spark flying
but the magic never lasts

And the concoction's never tasty
it's no good for tea nor stew
It lacks a pagan something
it's more virtue than voodoo

So, after a few fond hours of witching
we're ready for some decent grub
we find that and a better brew
down at our local pub