There
was this witch, who lived by the sea,
she was the wickedest witch, wicked, wicked, as can be
At night when the moon was riding high,
off out on her broomstick, she would fly
Through the towns, and villages she would ride,
peering through windows, trying to decide
On whom to cast her next wicked spell
When she spied someone fast asleep,
making herself thin
through a crack in the window she would creep
Waving her hands, her spell she would chant,
whilst doing a little dance
Higgely, haggely, hate,
at night when the clock strikes eight
Into a slimey green toad will you turn,
and for every night there after,
in the fires of hell will you burn
Then off on her broomstick she would go,
laughing, and cackling ever so
