Bitches In Stiches

There are witches robbing my riches,
I got them bitches in stitches.
Vicious witches on a mission crossing bridges,
Switching sides and breeches.

Suspicious ladies acting superstitious,
Burning midgets in the kitchen.
Lubricious and malicious, or quite inauspicious,
They are twitching in my fiction.

Tradition has it them bitches are evil,
Friction on par with domestic shit.
No ambition, or desire for delicious upheaval,
But there is a reason it ain't a skit.

Seditious and prodigious, not a kiss,
Waiting for a farmer and barber.
This darker partner then rose from his abyss,
Jonathan Harper, a tall foreigner.

English nobleman who loved bitches,
Thunder asunder for a hell brother.
These vicious witches, such terrible leeches,
Steep in bother and lifting smother.

Oh the people were in store for dross,
Nonsense poetry that was dense.
No expanse, no tense, nothing but a great loss,
Folderol hogwash and bad sense.

When the tornado blows I lose control,
Preposterous balderdash in a mash.
Mindless rubbish with witches in a hole,
Not something to ignore in a rehash.