by Nick Gisburne
A trinity of witches - three’s the key -
Know sorcery is not their strongest suit.
Belinda brews a wicked tombstone tea,
While Hanna has a taste for toasted newt.
The spells they strive to summon, frowning, fraught,
Are small, appalling miracles at most,
And even when Griselda grows a wart,
Her victory is far too tame to toast.
They find a Necronomicon for sale,
Exhausting all their savings on a fake.
In desperation, fearing they will fail,
They vow to fix their coven’s grave mistake.
Surrendering to evil, grim, grotesque,
They sell insurance, bored, behind a desk.
