Your house is like a witch’s cave,
Which trust me, my friend, is just not okay,
My aunt found one, so I know it’s true,
She said it looked like gutter clutter and smelled of woodshop glue.
Still she strode in, not her brightest decision,
(If you have any question, you can go ask my cousin,
Who knows Auntie Sal plays a bit off key,
just hear her pound the piano or taste her fire ant tea)
She had just laid her hand on a knobby old broom,
To feel the silk of the wood, I assume,
When out from the kitchen came a terrible sound,
A clanging and banging and bark of a hound,
“Lord ‘a mercy, dost that belong to you?”
Came the billowy voice that sounded quite blue,
Not the deep indigo of depression, I think,
More bright like the Gatorade I like to drink,
Which tastes icy cold, even when not from the fridge,
Which must be part of the flavor’s sweet rizz…
So screeched the voice which scared my poor aunt
Who in all desperation began a small rant,
“How can you live in a house so unkempt!
Or find anything in one or any attempt?
What you need is a maid or someone to clean-
You can’t possibly have guests in a cave so obscene!”
And, yes, my dear Calla, I put this to you,
Because sadly, at least from my point of view,
Your rooms resemble an abandoned old alley,
Where no one in their right mind would dally,
If you don’t do something to change your ways,
You will likely end up in a cluttery craze,
With rats in your sheets and bugs in your ears,
A fate to be listed up high in your fears—
For what of the witch who, not heeding my aunt,
Threw out the old women and sang a weird taunt:
“Of all those who think they know best,
Trespasser’s at least should give it a rest,
Because they don’t know who might curse their own chairs.”
With that the witch cackled and turned to the stairs.
And what sat on the step 3 feet from the top?
But a sorry balloon that had already popped.
And now you can see how this sad tale will end:
A witch in a heep on the floor with no friend.
