A witch hocus pocused my crocus
Through a hole in my garden wall
She aimed her old wand with great focus
And mumbled, “Kazamagarawl!”
Now my crocus appears in odd places
Like inside the drain of my sink
Or stuck through my brand-new ballpoint pen
Where I could’ve sworn there was ink
I found it again in the tool shed
With its stem tied around an old saw
And then again during Thanksgiving
It popped out of old Aunt Midge’s bra
It showed up once more in my wallet
Where six bucks and two dimes used to be
And then it showed up in my teapot
And again in a bag of split peas
When I put two red socks in the dryer
And left them to dry for an hour
I scowled to find when I checked it
Just one lonely sock and that flower
Then the crocus appeared in my pantry
And once, when I ate soup at noon
The crocus appeared in my fingers
Which a second ago held a spoon
I once, by mistake, smoked the crocus
Though I’d just packed the pipe with hashish
And POOF—while out walking my Schnauzer
The crocus appeared on the leash!
Then the crocus showed up on my clock face
And always points to the wrong hour
And once when I peered in the mirror
I saw not my own face, but the flower’s!
Now if I thought it might make a difference
I think I would probably shout:
“Witch! You un-hocus pocus my crocus!
You’ve succeeded in creeping me out.”
