The Witch Soft as lamb’s ear Sharp as honey locust thorn She prowls around at midnight The time when witches are born She gathers her nightshade in a purple, quilted bag With her cat by her side, they all think she is mad She smiles to herself and hums a soft tune The owls come to greet her in the dark of the moon She likes it this way Being left alone and a bit feared They find her when they need her It’s been that way for years When justice isn’t served or love goes unrequi
So they say...
They say black panthers don’t live in this part of the country. But the people that say that don’t live around here. Ask any of the older people that live back in the the hollers. They‘ll tell you stories about hearing them at night; roaming hungry and fierce through the mountainside, screaming like a woman being killed. The older folks laugh when people say ‘they don’t live here,’ because they know better.
My daddy always kept us kids close to the