Nasty Bird Woman

Nasty woman.

Mean spirited old bird. 

She knew she was evil

and she tried 

to contain her corrosive

spirit, 

blanketed in righteous robes

of recycled plastic number seven,

which frayed at all the visible edges.

Rough is not equal to sharp.

For the safety of her loved ones

she played Nice,

but her costume did not fit

anymore.

She was swollen, frumpy

in her misery, her resentments

festered like puss,

she reeked of infection

and abhored the

good scents

like innocence.

The green oozes out

leaving a slimy stain

where she once stood

her ground,

she makes it sound

like she is stuck

in her own trap.

A trap is a trap

when open.

Witches always walk

high and mighty

as if they were born

for power,

mistaking strength for malice.

Weight was all she could do

well,

I found myself 

standing over her well,

peering down 

into the depths of her Hell

which widens like a sinkhole 

swallowing all solid ground

and livlihood in her proximity.

My nose shrinks.

It smells rotten. 

Literally,

those that profess they possess;

intelligence, honesty and tidiness

are ignorant of the obviously sloppy lies 

they leave everywhere 

like litter-

who left this here?

There is a fine left to pay.

It will be collected,

any-witch-way.

Lastly,

How in Hell

does she sleep?

Champagne and Mexican pills.
Her flute overfills
bubbling over
the limit.

Artwork by George Romney, 'Tom Hayley' in Public Domain (date unknown).