There's a house on the hill.
It's full of ill will.
There's a witch living there.
But the towns folk don't care.
She's lived there privately.
Nobody sees the wart on her nose as it grows.
Everyone's heard of her, but nobody knows.
They don't ever see the black hair on her chin.
All petrified, none going in.
The cows in the field withhold their yield.
Stays inside their udders.
Blaming the witch but it's never revealed.
The witch finder general thinks he's a soldier.
As suspends her over the ducking pool.
All is revealed as he is a fool.
For the times have changed.
Witch finders extinct.
Believe what you like.
Witches don't turn milk sour.
Witch finders went out of fashion.
The house on the hill is still's just a myth.
Witches' name is old sister Smith.
No dangers of black magic.
No sign of a spell book.
Go visit her.
She'll set you free.
If you're very lucky she'll make you some tea.
(c)LIVVI