Wilma was an unfortunate witch
Whose spells just wouldn't work.
Everything she conjured up
Was spoiled with some quirk.

She attempted to grow butterflies
And got hungry moths instead
The others mocked until she cried
The Queen Witch shook her head

Wilma went when moon was dark
And gathered eye of dog,
Snail slime and wing of fly
And lots of spawn of frog.

She lit the fire and cooked it up
The smell was something bad
The other witches cried aloud
"She's bad or sad or mad."

The air was filled with clouds of steam
As the brew became real hot
Then it all began to froth
And poured from rim of pot.

The air cleared but, Where was she?
They found her pointed hat,
Her broom, her shoes, but nothing else
And that, my friends, is that.