I ride a broom ‘cause it’s convenient,
And not for any other reason.
That old thing starts at will,
It’s good for any season.
Higher and higher, it goes to the moon!
Higher and higher, it dispels my gloom!
Witch they call me,
Which they may.
I’ll tower above them when I’m old and gray!
Ha! Ha! Ha! I cackle out!
You all sit there and cradle your gout!
While I sit upon my broom,
And ride from here on a sonic boom!