Why does everyone want to be a witch, and can I be one too?
Forget princesses and fairies – how boring.
Though, fairies bite and kick ass, so I am told.
No, I want black, long and flowing,
A stream of allure in obsidian darkness.
Silver rings that sparkle and glint, as a crow’s eye.
I want to be powerful, know thyself they say.
I want to feel part of a secret society,
The unknown women’s society.
With quiet knowing’s, a sly look, and a wink.
Freemasons of women, for women.
I want to run free, hellishly dancing as I choose.
No restraints, no constraints, no, no, no.
I want a hat, pointy and tall, that warns of danger.
Shadowing my face in mystery, as a widow’s veil might.
Pointy shoes, ever so dainty with Victorian heels,
Clicking upon marble floors, with an air of authority.
I want a black cat, that purrs in my ear,
A familiar comfort, watching with feigned interest.
Tarot cards to shuffle,
held in my hands, as a devilish spread.
And a wand to wave, as a sword in battle,
Made by a Gypsy for a silver charm.
I’ll need a Grimoire, all witches do,
I shall write spells in oak gall ink,
And draw Sigils from angel’s wings,
I’m sure they won’t miss a feather or two.
So, mote it be, is what I shall say,
Three times a day,
A witch I shall be
A Witch I shall be
A witch I shall be