THE WITHERED WITCH AND HER HENCHMAN
a withered witch had her own crone
at whom she'd ***** and nag and moan
to make life cursed for her henchman
since best for worst had been her plan
a sweet old broad to untrained eye
mean overlord to her old guy
and what you'd hear come from their yard
was less old dear more prison guard
she'd yell and bray, she'd give commands
which he'd obey with ancient hands
and quite forlorn by circumstance
he'd mow the lawn and plant the plants
then paint the shed and prune the rose
then **** the bed and man the hose
make straight the edge and feed the birds
and trim the hedge - all on her word
then quick to state he'd done it wrong
she'd cry 'not straight, you took too long,
in the wrong place, too deep, won't sprout'
right in his face, day in, day out
no word was heard from there one day
no strife was stirred, no fresh affray
what kind of game could her placate?
the answer came a tad too late
in pools of red they found her laid
stuck in her head - a garden *****
with him suspended from a tree
life self-ended...peacefully
he'd left a note of what occurred
and what he wrote, his final word
'that's one task that I know for sure
she won't ask me to do once more'
one quick aside that's wise to tell
is when they died both went to Hell
where she's displeased with his last choice
and he's still teased by her shrill voice.
7d ago
May 29, 2026 at 11:04 AM UTC
THE WITHERED WITCH AND HER HENCHMAN
a withered witch had her own crone
at whom she'd ***** and nag and moan
to make life cursed for her henchman
since best for worst had been her plan
a sweet old broad to untrained eye
mean overlord to her old guy
and what you'd hear come from their yard
was less old dear more prison guard
she'd yell and bray, she'd give commands
which he'd obey with ancient hands
and quite forlorn by circumstance
he'd mow the lawn and plant the plants
then paint the shed and prune the rose
then **** the bed and man the hose
make straight the edge and feed the birds
and trim the hedge - all on her word
then quick to state he'd done it wrong
she'd cry 'not straight, you took too long,
in the wrong place, too deep, won't sprout'
right in his face, day in, day out
no word was heard from there one day
no strife was stirred, no fresh affray
what kind of game could her placate?
the answer came a tad too late
in pools of red they found her laid
stuck in her head - a garden *****
with him suspended from a tree
life self-ended...peacefully
he'd left a note of what occurred
and what he wrote, his final word
'that's one task that I know for sure
she won't ask me to do once more'
one quick aside that's wise to tell
is when they died both went to Hell
where she's displeased with his last choice
and he's still teased by her shrill voice.
Gardening is the therapy, not the problem.
