Here's a story about a witch,
With long black hair and broom.
She lived a long and lonely life,
Upon a dead man's tomb.
Her spells she wove, in dark despair,
In the blackness of the night.
And just before the dawn would break,
She rode the winds in flight.
She was evil, mean and twisted too,
She couldn't stand the light of day.
And any who saw her in the dark,
Would fall to their knees and pray.
Now this evil witch was getting old,
Her days were nearly done.
And she had a craving in her bones,
It was to see the sun.
So on a cold and fateful night,
Mid-winter by the moon.
She stood upon a mountain ledge,
And croaked an evil tune.
A spell of might, to help her see,
The sunshine and the day.
The very last spell she would ever weave,
For a price she had to pay.
That price was high, she saw the sun,
And the night-time turn to day.
But not for long, she turned to stone,
And forever that way will stay. Mr M P Boylan
Shuttle Street, Tyldesley
Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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