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“Mumble jumble grumble rumble,” tall pointed hat said, smugly.
 I was in a faerie tale witches’ pot. Thanks for asking.
“Love glove above Turtledove,” said old pointed hat.
“Hey!” short portly one yelled.  “Turtle dove does not make sense!”
I knew she was talking about the number of syllables, so I agreed, but I wisely
kept my mouth shut, as it was tightly-taped round my head hard with cobalt paint tape.
The water was getting toasty warm and I was trying to escape a wet watery cauldron slow death now.  Tall Pointed Hat noticed, so she popped me on my head with an aluminum shovel.
I did not see stars. I saw words.
I tore my tape off and yelled them.  “Amble bramble, scramble, campbell gamble!”
“Not bad!”  said Spider Web Hat.
The others stared at her.
“She might be the one!” Old Pointed Hat pointed out.
Tall Pointed Hat shook her head. “She’s too old!” she argued.
“Ugly, buggly, snuggly, fuggly, juggy, tuggly, chuggly!” I screamed, as my feet were on fire now.
My voice cracked as I added, “Marmalade, yarn lamb-made, pink kool-aide, starman grade!”
“She is the one!”  Spider Web Hat yelled. She and Old Pointed Hat pulled me out of the boiling pot.
“Can you do more?” one asked me.
“laugh, bath, graph, math, giraffe!” I screamed.
“Giraffe is wrong!” Old Pointed Hat pointed out.
“Give me another chance!” I argued.  But it was too late.
I had made a mortal mistake.
Moral of this story:  Witches take syllable count seriously.

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