My tiny hedge is now quiet after being invaded by these four. They are witches from Gloucestershire, the noisest witches in the land. They arrived from their home on the Gloucester/Sharpness Canal, and unannounced, walked right in with a blunder of suitcases and bats and clompy heels and battered books. I know Gloucestershire witches, my cheese, wine and freshly baked bread had to be safely locked away, along with the rest of the neighbourhoods’. A witch from these parts will sell anyone’s soul to the devil for a glass of Chilean Merlot and some Port Salut on a poppy seed cracker. Well, it’s been a traumatic week, apparently my hedge-home has a ley line running through it, so they’d come armed with dowsing rods, pendulums, charts, maps, 5 bottles of gin, 12 bottles of Cotes Du Rhone, twiglets and vodka. I’ve been moved to vent my spleen in this poem, as a move toward positivity. Axe throwing is always a good back up option.
Stop watching Netflix at once!
And get those toads off your lap!
You’ve eaten all my fresh larks tongues,
You’re angling for a jolly good slap.
Tidy your cloaks from the floor,
And wash up the cauldron I say,
There are runes all over the garden,
And you’ve barely stopped drinking all day.
That broom can be used for sweeping,
It’s not like you’re able to fly.
I’m sitting here thinking of weeping,
You’ve scoffed all my home made pork pie.
A night on the town brings forth objects,
Like policemen and the odd chanting crone,
You venture off out in your black pointy hats,
And return with a motorway cone.
The elders think I’m too modern,
The young think I’m much too square,
I find hexes engraved in my toilet,
And a moment of silence is rare.
The chanting goes on at all hours,
The discussion of magic is deep.
But I listen and pick up some things,
So I do them while you are asleep.
Banishing visitors spell, here I come,
So cease your loud drumming, and away.
I’ve brought in ingredients aplenty,
And your books have led me astray.
So take yourselves back to Gloucester,
Where noisy witches are allowed.
Leave my hedge silent, my cheese unattacked,
And get Shshshh’d all around bloody Stroud.
Lord of Darkness, that feels better. It saves one from a troublesome time, if one can enjoy a good rant, it clears the soul of frustration. And we know some folk can get awfully prickly about a spot of murder. Still, onwards and upwards, now they’ve buggered off I shall be practising the art of Primomancy. This is the ancient skill of gazing at the current Prime Minister and trying to divine truth. To my knowledge, no scholar in the last two millenia have achieved it, so I have much work to do. Pip pip!
Mad Aunt Bernard's Tortoise Poetry 
Love the poem though it does suggest that witches have a poor diet which lacks fruit and vegetables.
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They can be dreadful, but from what I gather they have a fabulous diet – unless they are on holiday, in which case it’s symbolically flung out the window. Chinese takeaway, fish and chips, things called baps, but in fairness they do consume an awful lot of olives.
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I do hear that the variety of witch from Gloucestershire are particularly noisy and respond to ssshhhhing with outbreaks of cackling!
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Hello Dear Julia, you are quite right. I feel this may be something to be encouraged…?
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I have been practicing my cackling whenever possible in preparation for the next round of ssshhhhing
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