Hungaly-mungaly-bungaly-boo.
We’re chanting and marching like witches do,
but nothing is happening yet.
We whipped up one heck of a magical potion
from Worcestershire sauce and exfoliating lotion,
which was sadly the best we could get.
’Cause we asked Mama if she had eyes of a frog
and three long hairs from a rabid old dog,
and she said, “I’m afraid I do not.”
Nor could we find any tongue of newt.
But we’ve got string cheese and squeezy fruit,
and we tossed all of that in the pot.
But witches have spells that they carefully learn.
Witches are named Thistle or Fire-Shall-Burn;
we’re just Lucy and Marley and Ned.
And really, this bathrobe is makin’ me itchy.
I’m tired of marching, and I don’t feel too witchy.
How ’bout we go and ride bikes instead?