Into the Pot

At her cauldron, swiftly stirring,
cackling while oft referring
to each item on the page
or quickly glancing at the cage
where the tears have long been wept;
no hope, only sad doom expect
those infants she has locked in there.
Now see this desolate young pair—
her finger's on the final line
and one of them will do quite fine. 

The boy or girl, she wonders now, 
which one to keep and which devour.
The girl might join the coven's vow, 
but she looks sweet, the boy so sour.

Perplexity, she hates to choose;
a new cruelty comes in view.
She blesses then her wicked muse. 
"Now one of you the other do.

"Wrestle, I say. Fight for your life.
Push your sister in for my delight.
Your brother falls, you'll be the devil's wife."
She laughed at this new hellish rite. 

The lock unlatched above the brew, 
the door opened to witches' stew, 
the frightened whelps clasped on tight
and held each other in that dark night. 

Frustrated cruelty, the witch stamped and screamed. 
"Get in there now, you unredeemed. 
I bought you from your parents fair, 
now bite and kick and claw and tear!" 

Then reaching over the bubbling pot, 
she poked and prodded; so she thought
to goad them to the wicked deed, 
forgetting her own spell to heed. 

The fumes rise and burn her eyes, 
she marvels then in great surprise, 
how nearer sniff, this deeper whiff, 
makes her aged body stiff. 

Top heavy, her legs locked up, 
she falls face first into her stuff. 
The childer on whom she'd have supped
watch as her charms herself now snuff.