There once lived a witch on the top of a hill.
Whose house was battered, windows broken, doors shrill.
She harbored no anger, she sought no quarrel.
Even still, the townspeople thought her immoral.
They raided her home, for no reason or rhyme.
And took her to town, claiming false crimes.
While she pleaded her case, no one heeded her cry.
With pitch-forks raised the townspeople screamed "Die!"
As the townspeople plotted, ready to kill,
A boy asked,"Does no one pray for the witch on the hill?"
Shocked and appalled, a man said from behind,
"She's a witch young boy, are you out of your mind?"
"Is she not a person, like you or me?"
Said the boy sternly, hoping they would agree.
"A witch is a witch." said a man with in a hat,
"You can't pray for a witch, and that's that!"
But the boy knelt down, onto both knees
And put his hands together, in a clearing of trees
"I pray for this witch, for her situation is dire.
Please keep her safe from the townspeople's ire.
Her journey's been long, her journey's been rough,
She's committed no crimes, end the townspeople's bluff!"
As the prayer ended, like the chant of a spell.
The ground opened up and took the townspeople to hell.
And so ends our story of the boy and the witch
Who still live on that hill fat, happy, and rich.
But who really sent the townspeople into the abyss?
Was it God or the Devil who delivered Death's kiss?
