Three witches stand around the fire,
Their ugliness is oh-so dire.
One with hair fashioned from cat,
Eyes intact and tail: cravat.
One with eyeless pits of grey,
Filled with mould and rank decay.
The last with skin cobwebbed with ash,
And every limb marked with a slash.
They stare into their evening meal,
And chant as if to make a deal.
Beyond them, bound by magic chain,
A long-lost princess writhes in pain.
Her beauty hidden from the world,
She takes what food she's ever hurled.
The chain? A spell she cannot break;
Their chanting makes her twist and shake.
The witches let their chanting stop,
And with a screeching, whining pop...
The princess, let loose from her cuffs,
Moves to join their raspy huffs.
The princess now is one of them,
Her dress has shrivelled at its hem.
No longer beauty, her face a mask,
Focused on her witching task.
Her ice-blue eyes now cold and dead,
Where hair once lay, there's snakes instead.
Another girl to make it four,
The witches move to make more gore.
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