The witch of Salem Ave.-her green tears weep-
at failure when her toads don't grow so tall.
Her sooty, twelve-volt broom-a messy sweep-
helps hunt the children, prized when they're so small
for all her lizard horde needs treats to eat
and witch herself is famished when she prowls;
Clad basic black, austere for every feat,
the lady's bad as lice that sour cows.
Once turning home- leased Titan's hollow heart-
she cell phones those ghost writers in Duluth.
It's sin that her hexed writing conjures art,
but text of magic pen supplies the 'poof'-
She'll vent by curse, wreck quarterlies by rows,
if poems sent back. No chance she chants pure prose....

The witch of Salem Ave.-her green tears weep-
at failure when her toads don't grow so tall.
Her sooty, twelve-volt broom-a messy sweep-
helps hunt the children, prized when they're so small
for all her lizard horde needs treats to eat
and witch herself is famished when she prowls;
Clad basic black, austere for every feat,
the lady's bad as lice that sour cows.
Once turning home- leased Titan's hollow heart-
she cell phones those ghost writers in Duluth.
It's sin that her hexed writing conjures art,
but text of magic pen supplies the 'poof'-
She'll vent fire, wreck quarterlies by rows
when poems sent back. By chance, her chants blaze prose.

Glenn Bagshaw

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-spell-of-poetry/