Three witches stood stirring the cauldron,
When up comes that bloke they call Bald Ron.
"I say, ladies fair,
Can you grow me some hair?
It's cold round my ear holes dears," called Ron

The first hideous beldam grabbed, hauled Ron
To floor, stripped him off, and then mauled Ron.
"Your Dunsany wood,
Stands up pretty good.
Hey sisters, you wanna try Bald Ron?"

He lay there while each of the hags,
Bestride him, and each one he shags,
Despite these tarts' putri-
fied, warty foul uteri,
His todger stands straight, never flags.

(Is this a shagger I see before me?)

In voice quite devoid of emotion,
Witch one says: "Yes, I have a notion.
We'll fry frog's eye, cool,
Add newt's foot, toad's tool,
And liquidise into a potion."

He drinks it, this nauseous syrup,
While birds in the willow trees chirrup,
And rides homeward, slow...
But his horse seems to grow,
His feet soon don't reach to each stirrup.

   * * *

Here's Lady MacBeth, feeling hot,
On bed with her dog, while her twat
Enjoys the sensation
Of canine fellation;
Here's hubby, kicks dog, "Out damned Spot."

It's nearly an hour since he scored,
So, Rampant, he's leaping aboard;
But something is strange,
His face, for a change,
He finds 'twixt the breasts of his broad.

He left home, height six feet or more,
And now he's about five foot four.
As witches foreboded,
His hair is eroded
By friction on headboard no more.

And thus, that strange potion proved true,
From thenceforth his follicles grew.
Alas, what he'd drunken
Made John Thomas shrunken,
And that night he had his last screw.

So, males of the species humanity,
Take heed, for it's total insanity,
To lose what's down there
For a head full of hair
Is a criminal sop to your vanity.