In the arms of death
the witches breath
exhaled garlic onto vampires.
Pumpkins smiles were warped
onto plates came the food,
made for her entire brood.
Mrs Grotbag had her way,
among her children she held sway,
worms and bunyans, curled up toenails.
In her arms lies a child, pretty as can be.
In love with her she is, her golden babe,
places a charm bracelet around her
a wooden cross around her neck to keep her safe
for when faced with doom she flies
on her broomstick to the afterlife.