A Stitch OF A Witch

She is a real stitch, of a witch,

Of a word, that rhymes with fitch,

She lives in a blistering genital ditch,

I would not rakishly wish,

This porbeagle dish,

Of that defeminizing ditch, on no other,

She still is my mother?

Hug her, hug her.

She is a real stitch, of a witch,

Of a word, that rhymes with snitch

She endures yaw stitchery,

Of this 1692 Salem witchery,

With suckerfish nastiness,

Who lives in thee ultimate ditch,

I would not wish, this itchy itch,

Of thee fidgety witch, on no other

She is still, yet, thus that bun,

This was thee in thus oven?

My other mother,

Who ate a dish of dead fish?

Which caused her to fester?

She still, is my sister,

There are inclines of her feistier, uteri.

Hug her, hug her.

She is a real Stitch, of a witch,

Of a word that rhymes with kitsch,

Of a word that sounds like witch,

Not unlike a Brit bish.

Why, this great big world,

You know this shy, chattered girl,

Why world?

Have you given her this game?

Betoken hats and broom sticks that twirl?

Nah, not this grand world!

This is not her name, which rhymes with witch,

Of a word that rhymes with flitch,

Not bacon or halibut fish

But world, it is your glitch, of a pitch

It is your frame of shame and dirty name game.

My daughter’s sister and her mother’s who, yours too,

Hug her, hug her.

By

William Loggins