Clad as a witch
She an her friend
Took the time to backstitch
and to mend
The dresses, of which they were proud

The girls were eight
Her mother ardent
They were a fine bait
And from home the mother absent

They went to the grave of Tom Meyer
In the Witching Hour
Although, God knows Meyer's a liar
Scared of what might devour
Two small little girls as bait

They hopped upon his grave
Not giving a care
Here came the darkness to enslave
Frightfully unaware
It was her mother.

She came as a slave to the night
Popped out from the dark
She looked like she might bite
And carefully made her mark

She hugged a plush
A deviantart Fella
But she had to blush
But it was only Bella!

Then the others saw
It was the Mother
who did a cha-cha
and the brother.