The wicked witch of Wooloomooloo,
Frightened everyone she knew;
She haunted their bedrooms, she haunted their halls,
 She even walked right through their walls.

She rode a broomstick every night,
She gave the airline pilots a fright;
As they came in to land their planes,
She would fly right past their window panes.

She loved to haunt the local pubs,
Where all the drunks, wrapped up in rugs,
Would sleep in doorways in the street,
People you wouldn't like to meet.

She lived in darkness and in gloom,
In a dingy dirty little room;
Where she brewed her witches potions,
Sealed in bottles for skin beauty lotions.

No body knew from whence she came,
No one knew if she had a name;
But every person that she did meet,
Said that she had smelly feet.

You would mostly meet her in the park,
But only when it was very dark;
For as it became light and bright,
The wicked witch would then take flight.

She would fly away with a horrible cackle,
As rough as a bite on a chocolate crackle;
Off into the night with a scream of glee,
 Enough to curdle your blood you see.

But then she met her grisly fate,
 She wasn't hung on the big park gate;
And not for reasons you might think, 
But because my pen is out of ink.