The Fact That Every Witch Knows

a elderly woman with gray hair

The Fact That Every Witch Knows

What I hate about this place

is how the curtains twitch so.

The peeking eye, the hidden face,

the fact that every witch knows,

the things I do, who comes and stays,

the way I clean my windows.

They lurk in dark, just out of sight,

just there behind the curtains,

and look out all the day and night,

of that I’m sure and certain.

They watch the people on our street,

and then they pass their judgement

on the corner where they meet.

I find it so repugnant.

I wish I lived out in the sticks

with noone near to see me,

away from all their little tricks

that make my life so dreary;

the little glance as they walk by,

the little sniff in passing,

the little smile as they ask why

that woman kept on knocking.

I hate the way they need to know

about the things I do,

I wish they’d all get up and go

to tend their witches brew.

The reason that I know these facts

is plain and clear to see:

I know because I am a match,

I watch them watching me.

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