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When I grow old
I’ll be as wicked as a witch,
as mad as a box of frogs –
I shan’t be like some old crones
who are both vicious and nice;
I’ll be the original niggard, cheese-paring witch
grim and cheerless,
the sullen bad tempered one
who is labouring under a false illusion.
I’ll run about and cause havoc
and make a pig’s ear of everything
and blame it on unsuspecting guests.
And I’ll do inappropriate things,
like whistle during prayer
and flash my bum at the local vicar.
I’ll have a fat black cat named Nails
whose paws will be, say, the size of a mountain bear
who’ll happily run you to bits
and a broom to fly me to –
well whatever location I choose.
I’ll be the original weirdo
the original nut job
with feathers in my Victorian bonnet
and a flared red cape on
and kinky blue stockings.

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