Candelabra is a witch,
A witch with class, my dear;
Well, how many witches do you know,
With lighted candles on their ears?
There is a land far, far away,
On the dark side of the moon;
Candelabra hails from there,
She flies here on a broom.
Actually, she makes this flight,
Each year in late October;
She flies around the whole, wide world,
She likes to look things over.
She picks her spot; then taxis in,
Her ETA is Halloween,
Only a splintered broomstick,
Would keep her from being seen.
Each Halloween at Midnight,
There is a witch convention;
It's the highlight of the witches' year,
Candelabra's never missed one.
Way out in the forest,
Beyond a human's view ...
The witches park their broomsticks,
While they do their witches' brew.
A big, black kettle's boiling,
Over fire burning bright;
Candelabra is the witch-picked witch,
To be chief cook this night.
Then the witches form a ring,
As around the pot they dance,
They clap their knobby fingers,
While in monotone, they chant.
"BOIL AND BUBBLE,
POT OF TROUBLE,
GIVE THE CHILDREN JOY;
IN THESE BUBBLES,
MELT THE TROUBLES
OF EACH GIRL AND BOY."
As they gyrate around the kettle,
Each witch throws something in ...
The eyes of gnats, some horn-toad's horns,
And a sneaky snake's old skin.
Black crows drop eggs into the brew,
While circling overhead;
Candelabra stirs with glee,
As the witches' pot is fed.
Each time Candelabra smiles,
One of her candles lights;
Now every candle is aglow,
As she broadly smiles this night.
Sometimes distant thunder's heard,
And lightning flashes may be seen;
And with the witches' cackling laughter,
A delightful, frightful Halloween.
Just as the dawn is breaking,
The witches pack their gear;
Candelabra snuffs her candles,
Bids farewell until next year.
Now, should a child wake up early,
And look up at the morning sun;
He might catch a glimpse of witches,
Disappearing one by one.