Okay she’s a witch,
and such a bad bitch.
She’s fine on her own,
wanting nothing shown.
If she grabs you alone,
she’ll question your phone.
And She doesn’t
need anyone’s approval,
She grins at your wince,
stirs her family since.
Then blames you,
For the weathered mince.
You reminder her of Hinch,
Or a salty old finch.
Anything thats grim,
rather than flinch,
She’s looking to linch,
her eyes staring grince.
Her families devout,
She doesnt know why – they let her on out.
But one more try,
to see you fry.
As she professes her contribution,
To this gospel revolution.