The Forest Still Grows Dark, Deep and Lovely

here comes the night, a deep pitch black, what's sharper than a ravens call? I know not, ruffled and bothered, who hears the raven? it's the witch who hears him, when he squawks, her actions are wicked, as she cackles and cooks, black ravens fly, as she stirs the pot, her fingers are knobby, and disfigured, in all of their joints, but you needn't fraught, it's the raven's claw, she's seeking, for her spell, to call out black rot, as bad as she, the fungus will grow, rotting the forest, wherever she doth trot, the ravens aware, that she, needs his claw, he'll not be caught, he hides among the trees, the branches all twisted, and disfigured like she, her cackles within earshot, the wise old raven, positions himself, directly above, the boiling cauldron pot, the witch blows in, pointing her finger at him, I've got you now! she thought, the raven squawked, "look below old witch, notice anything new? I've moved your pot," with that he flew, knocking the witch, into her own brew, where she boils and rots, so listen without fear, when the raven squawks, he saved his forest, and whatnot.