She knows all the words to the right songs
though she sings them all slightly off key.
She runs through this world
in the wrong dress,
yet she walks in the room and the men turn to see
if it's her, and their girlfriends all elbow and stare,
sending dagger looks through pregnant air,
sulking, and flicking their hair.

Yet she never once means them a moment of harm
she'd not touch their men with her green Irish charm.
She goes her own way, and she's happy to play
on her own, if only your men,
felt the same, and would leave her alone.

I just can't, for the life of me
recall the proper recipe!
Was it eye of toad and ear of bat?
Or skin of newt and tail of rat?

I really don't know where I'm at
but if I get it wrong, that's that!

Nada! Zip! For me and you,
one smelly potion and no love, true
or otherwise, what's a witch to do
with a cauldron that is full of glue???

When I lift it from the oven
I'll be laughed out of the Coven

At Lincolns Inn in London town
where crowds and traffic rush and hum
there stands a lone, forgotten tree
a Cercis Siliquastrum.

It isn't straight and isn't tall
It leans like it's about to fall
It's aspect is a silent call
but no one these days cares at all.

This shy, retiring, gentle tree
marked for all time by infamy,
stains rugged bark as red as blood
reminding us that God is good.

It sets forth flowers bright as flame
in blushing pink it shows its shame.
It wears its portion of the blame
for here's a tree that knows its name.

The birds have fallen silent.
Dancing Meadowsweet stands still.
The airs intaken breath is paused.
The world awaits until
his hand reclaims the pen once more.
Scribes verse upon the ream.
For he's the final Poet.
Lonley dreamer of the dream.

A wealth of meaning can be found
within two letters, barely sound.

A breeze through leaves.
A slithering snake.
Water on shingle that laps a lake.

A softly, soothing lullaby.
The end of a secret.
The start of a lie.

A Chinese whisper.
A smoking gun.
The turning page of a story begun.

Astonishments laughter.
Admonishments pain.
The Wit’s last resort
and the Fool’s refrain