We Wiccans are scary witches,
we Wiccans are scary bitches,
we Wiccans are hairy witches—
when you’re happy, we jeer.

A stink from our icky “pudding”;
into it vile things we’re putting;
it’s pink-gray, our icky pudding—
you’ll wonder what’s in here.

Bad tidings we’ll bring to you and your kin.
We Wiccans don’t bring you blissness…
just a crappy new year.

We won’t go until we have done
bad deeds, because that is our fun.
It’s useless to go get a gun—
immortal’s what we’re.

Appalled by our icky pudding,
you’re galled by our icky pudding.
We’re all into icky pudding;
we chase it with beer.

Bad hide things: it stings and blisters your skin.
It rips at your epidermis;
causing gashes, it sears.

We Wiccans are very wicked,
we Wiccans are scary wicked,
we Wiccans don’t care for blissness; we bring nastiness near.