A wicked wandering once walked!
In a wood, cold and full of dread
I wandered, bold and bullish’d head
To find the sisters three of which were witches.
Winding gnarled amidst the black
My journey twisted off the track
As the thumping of my heart itch and twitches.
But hearken unto me, my friend
Through the dark I did see the end
And so I passed into their hateful curs-ed space.
“What ho!” I cried in shaking tone
“What’s this?” replied a quaking crone.
“A man clasp’d unto fate’s cruel and mocking japes?”
“Sisters please, I must have your aid
“My job is lost; my bills unpaid
“Blackest magic must I have just to survive!”
The oldest of the sisters three
Turned gray and cloudy eyes to me,
“Quackest sad thick just to laugh must you now tithe!”
I stared at her; the others too
Too scared to now know what to do
Could the dread three be mad as well as wick-ed?
I tried again: “Your help I beg!”
“Please cast a spell to save this dreg,
“Lest it be said this man’s been hellish trick-ed!”
“Oh Sane are we,” the youngest creak’d.
“And know we of the man you speak’d.
“He is an enemy of all we witch-es.”
“And so shall we speak jibb’rishly
“One who seeks us from such as he”
“We listen to a many frog see rich-es!”
“I plead, dread sisters, tweak me not,
“With these dead twisted words of rot
“Or shall I show to you my bound-less power?”
“Do your worst, no fear have we
“Think you first to speak threatingly?
“This gall we’ve known in many count-less hours!”
“Then taste my might, sisters of lie!
“Tis great and right, that you should die!
“To this guy, living legend, M. McGregor!”
I loosed a curse, dark heavy and
They soon turned into lez-bians
Tis all my writing’s urgented endeavor.
For though I’ve authored much in life
You know I’m known for wife on wife
It has thus become my great queer’d magic hope
Don’t pity me nor sisters three
The sisters part was falsity
This was just to welcome Shakespeare’s tragic trope.
The three then left for gaity
I’d freed them from cliche-ity
But from fate: was none to save, trick-or-free me
I was left as is always true:
Alone, bereft, with balls of blue
It’s now too late, brave McGregor (so dreamy!)
Happy New Year, everyone!
I wandered, bold and bullish’d head
To find the sisters three of which were witches.
Winding gnarled amidst the black
My journey twisted off the track
As the thumping of my heart itch and twitches.
But hearken unto me, my friend
Through the dark I did see the end
And so I passed into their hateful curs-ed space.
“What ho!” I cried in shaking tone
“What’s this?” replied a quaking crone.
“A man clasp’d unto fate’s cruel and mocking japes?”
“Sisters please, I must have your aid
“My job is lost; my bills unpaid
“Blackest magic must I have just to survive!”
The oldest of the sisters three
Turned gray and cloudy eyes to me,
“Quackest sad thick just to laugh must you now tithe!”
I stared at her; the others too
Too scared to now know what to do
Could the dread three be mad as well as wick-ed?
I tried again: “Your help I beg!”
“Please cast a spell to save this dreg,
“Lest it be said this man’s been hellish trick-ed!”
“Oh Sane are we,” the youngest creak’d.
“And know we of the man you speak’d.
“He is an enemy of all we witch-es.”
“And so shall we speak jibb’rishly
“One who seeks us from such as he”
“We listen to a many frog see rich-es!”
“I plead, dread sisters, tweak me not,
“With these dead twisted words of rot
“Or shall I show to you my bound-less power?”
“Do your worst, no fear have we
“Think you first to speak threatingly?
“This gall we’ve known in many count-less hours!”
“Then taste my might, sisters of lie!
“Tis great and right, that you should die!
“To this guy, living legend, M. McGregor!”
I loosed a curse, dark heavy and
They soon turned into lez-bians
Tis all my writing’s urgented endeavor.
For though I’ve authored much in life
You know I’m known for wife on wife
It has thus become my great queer’d magic hope
Don’t pity me nor sisters three
The sisters part was falsity
This was just to welcome Shakespeare’s tragic trope.
The three then left for gaity
I’d freed them from cliche-ity
But from fate: was none to save, trick-or-free me
I was left as is always true:
Alone, bereft, with balls of blue
It’s now too late, brave McGregor (so dreamy!)
Happy New Year, everyone!