Happy Birthday, Whitney! This is for you.

Well, it's still technically Thursday if I post this early enough and if I don't, then happy late birthday. Regardless, she got hedgehogs in my head when she suggested that I write a poem about them, but I think instead, I will treat you to a poem about a Hedge Hag. If poetry is playing with words, then I say I want a hedge hag. A hag who lives in a hedge. So, happy Birthday, Whitney and enjoy this hag poem I wrote for you. Not that I think you're a hag... wow. Just realized that connection could be made. Whatever. If you're a hag, I love you anyway. Cheers.

Hedgehag
By: David Mathis

Hedge hag. A hag in a hedge. A hag that heretofore rested within the bounds of a hedge. A holly hedge. A hedge that contained holly and also a hag was the home of the hedge hag. She loved her hedge, the hedge hag did. She loved it "to pieces" as the colloquialism goes, and while not particularly applicable to the hedge, it did in fact shed a lot. A hedge that sheds. She shed too, the hedge hag, though not as much as the holly hedge. Leaves flitted away, blown by wind-- gusted. She should have felt mortified, the hedge hag should, for her house was blowing away. The thing about living in a hedge is that there is always another hedge to find. The hedge hag found a new hedge-- a shaped hedge. The new hag hedge was a flamingo. A perfect hag hedge for a hedge hag, this haggish hedge was in the center of a garden. Not the haggiest garden, but yet still a haggish enough for an old hedge hag. She scratched her haggy nose and giggled her haggy giggle and into the hedge the old hedge hag slipped, never to exit again.

The End

My god, what the hell was that?