Of Broomsticks and Thistles and old bones that rattle down old dirt roads driving rusty old jalopies white with dust and time while grey headed ghosts turn with a grin a toothy smile he smiles at the two of them he looks straight thru them as an xray machine and counts the vertabre line by line quickly he turns with a jerk and a shout his pig nose exposes an obnoxious smirk his hollow eyes gleam red and down this dirt road everyone is dead.
