There once was a wicked old witch. Garabalda was her name, and she'd kick up her heels, and dance in the rain. Her broom was always kept in the corner quite well near, and of her spells and potions, were almost always quite well real.
Every time she'd sit down to plate, the finest herbs and spices were all that she ate. And as she sat upon her well tufted rear, she'd think about all the other witches when in her eye, was a wicked old tear. She'd cackle and hiss beneath the moon, and fly across the sky, on her well tattered broom. And of all the witches that were around, Garabalda the witch was the nicest that was ever found.
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