The Witches

The Witches

 

Dylan C James

 

For there was a ghost, she stood in the hall,

By light of the moon, forlorn was her call,

“It cannot be so, am I really dead?

They called me a witch and cut off my head.”

 

For no witch was I, why should they think so?

It could not be seen, a foot with sixth toe,

My mother with gift, she read the tea leaves,

Who taketh our lives, these men they are thieves.

 

Cast out and branded, such hate from them all,

A witch-hunt took place for one that was small,

We are damned if we do and damned if we don’t,

Slain into pieces, some say that they won’t.

 

I was taken way up that Pendle Hill,

A gathering crowd, with thirst for my kill,

Women like cattle, “Must burn at the stake!

Her nose is too big, her soul we must take!”

 

Lass tight in her hand, a glass crystal ball,

Man in crowd shouted, “So down witch must fall,”

I was a stranger, not knowing their names,

The last thing twas seen, were towering flames.