Little Middle Weedmead
Somewhere, in the shire of Bodelbean
A young fairy princess was born
From the belly, of the wicked queen

She named her daughter Grimace
To show her spiteful ways
The wicked queen was horrid
Was also a witch, on certain days!

She would cackle quite madly
And turn children into frogs
Whilst the parents protested angrily
She turned them into dogs

Yet one day a week on Saturdays
She became quite pleasant to know
And was even nice to her daughter
By Sunday, this niceness would go!

Yet Grimace, her faithful daughter
Had a secret of her own
Late on Saturday evening
She'd sit upon her mother's throne

She'd issue ghastly orders
For hopping frogs legs on toast
(My favourite, yum!)
Or bats ear, and rhubarb pie
Then fly away to the coast

She'd sit astride her broomstick
And cackled like her mum, wah, wah, wah wah wum!
She'd pockle her tongue out rudely
And kicked strangers up the ***!

But at the stroke of midnight
On the face of the old grandmother clock
Time moved over to Sunday morning
And Grimace, grimaced, like a sock

Anyway, Grimace got older
As older she grew
And before she could define it
She was suddenly 22!

Her wicked witchy mother queen
Had grown a particularly long nose
And it was oft thought
She could probably pick it with her toes!
EW!

And just like that
The Witchy Wicked Mother Queen
Was never ever heard
And never, ever seen
(Again!)

Grimace, in time, was crowned queen
She was most splendiferous
And mostly normal
That's ignoring Saturdays!

by Jemia