The punch is poured, the apples are bobbin',
By midnight tonight, we'll be grave-robbin'.
Don your capes, your gloves, your masks,
The moon is out and we're on the attack.
Come then, you magik, tragic witch,
Hop on your broom with a hop and a hitch.
At dusk we ride, we soar, we fly,
Mix drinks with frog legs and newt of eye.
Quiver at our cackle, scream at our song,
Whoever said witches aren't fun was wrong.
*******************
happy halloween, my pumpkin pasties!!!!
YOU ARE READING
Lonely Thoughts
Poetry~technically, every day is leg day when you're running away from your problems~ ((alternatively titled: please enjoy my laughable poetry.))
