Vertigo

She was yer postcard type of witch Long black cloak and red striped hose Pointy hat and straggly raggly hair Even wart of requisite size on nose Miaowly cat of evil demeanour Balanced there on her broom With a certain air of sang froid As she steered around the room But eye of toad and tongue of newt Plus any spell known just couldn’t right That she couldn’t fly by the moon Cos she was so afeared of heights She never made the witches ball Never danced the Evil Tango If one just can’t ride one’s broomstick There’s no way known that one can go So she sits at home in misery Frantically searching for a spell A charm a potion or incantation To solve her perfectly dreadful hell Oh she can curse with the best of ‘em Cure warts and other various ills But how can a witch be credible When she’s always having spills How can a witch have pride When she can’t leave her room To attend her monthly local coven Cos she keeps falling off her broom