Her hat hides a horror
of wild frizzy hair.
Her clothing is tattered
with holes everywhere.

Her cloak’s made of plastic
that rustles and flaps.
She mutters and murmurs
and chirrups and claps.

She mixes her potions
of powder and paste;
Some oats in a bucket
with regumate laced.

Her straw broom exploded
and went everywhere.
There’s straw in her pockets,
her boots, and her hair.

Her pockets hold...