by Josephine Miles

The lady in the unbecoming bonnet
Let down her weeping hair.
She saw the broomstick and the witch upon it
Riding there.

The wind was full of bottles and the air
Aggressive as a shell.
The lady watched about her everywhere
The sallyings of hell.

The little boys stopped ringing at the bell
As she came homeward sadly.  They had her cat
Spitting and mewing, a black one: Lady,
Whose cat is that?

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