Garwitche's Broom
Garwitche's broom was fed up to the teeth,
With driving the old witch about.
His bristles forlorn,
His handle so worn,
Because the old lady was stout.
Her weight has progressed over the years
To something just short of a tonne.
When she wanted to fly,
He thought he would die,
And mused about buying a gun.
The old hag would waddle him out to the hill
And settle him down on the green.
As he prayed to the lord,
She'd heave-to on board,
Then only his bristles were seen.
He thought about tipping her off on the clouds
Or ramming her into a tree.
He couldn't decide,
A dangerous ride
Wasn't really for brooms such as he.
At last he became so badly depressed
And cried at the drop of a hat.
Also he laughed,
A maniacal laugh,
Whenever he saw old Dame Fat.
He almost tipped over the edge
But held himself back really well.
But.....then the crunch came,
When the overweight dame
Adopted a fat cat from hell!
The thought of these two on his skinny stick
back
Was just far too much for the lad.
He broke down in tears,
In flooded his fears
And reduced him to barkingly mad!
He saw them approach and he grinned through
his tears
An unspeakable, terrible smirk.
He wished them "Good day",
As they got under way,
To the sky, with a jolt and a jerk.
Garwitche's blubber trembled and shook
The cat looked unsafe on his perch.
Broom giggled insanely,
At the pair so ungainly,
Feeling each shudder and lurch.
He gathered his strength, shot up through the
clouds
Like a bullet fired from a gun.
As if in a dream,
He heard them both scream,
As they felt scorching rays from the sun.
Garwiche's broom was now launched into space.
The black cat exploded that day.
The witch, feeling sick,
Let go of the stick
And she gently floated away.
Poor broom, now quite mad, flew into the sun,
All his troubles were gone in a flash.
He screamed with delight
At the fiery red light,
Then was gone in a puff of black ash!
