Poetry

An old witch grows a servant from a potato

Wash it roughly, no grit needed,

sprinkle the powder over, cover it all,

boil up the water, fill the room with steam

stand back while the sprouts start to spring.

 

Hands first, arms, then shoulders,

torso covered with dark eyes,

legs sturdy but knobbly knees

and the head – ah, where is it?

 

Splash here, splash there

shower it all over

finally out it pops: warm, mashy grin.

See it walk, not roll or hobble.

Good! Set it to work. Clean the cauldron,

let the chores begin!

Poetry

The Switch

There was once a young witch,

who suffered with a twitch,

and, though tragic,

it affected her magic.

 

One day she cast a spell

in order to help her sell

her newest healing potions

and soothing skin lotions.

 

Then she felt a slight itch–

oh, no, the beginning of the twitch!

 

BANG! The spell went wrong

and she ended up in a throng

of market-goers looking

for simple ways of cooking.

 

Everyone pushed and shoved;

the witch felt a tug.

 

Someone tried to steal her magic

but it let off such static

that thief and witch

felt their bodies switch.

 

So witch became thief

with missing teeth,

and thief became witch,

taking on her twitch.

 

Now they have to work together,

or they’ll be stuck that way forever!