What if, instead of siblings, Hansel and Gretel had been married twenty years when they went into the witch's kitchen?
GRETEL: Hansel, my hapless husband, we must do
something lest Witchy cooks us in a stew.
HANSEL: Stew! That’s great! Carrots, potatoes and beef
served after a nice wine aperitif.
As a cook, Witchy has appealing appeal,
I’m ready right now to have a big meal.
GRETEL: Hansel, you idiot, what is the matter?
You’re brain’s shot! We’ll be served on a platter.
And what she can’t eat she’ll give to the dogs,
or we will be some swell swill for her hogs.
HANSEL: My word, Gretel, you’re overreacting.
I think you need to try interacting
with that fine lady who treats us so well.
Why must you make poor Witchy’s life hell?
Kindness and decency are stuff you lack,
when all your hormones are way out of whack.
GRETEL: Hormones? I ought to whack you with hormones
upside your head, that useless sphere of bones
that hasn't a neuron or synapse
or cell to make thoughts. A brain of odd scraps
that God had around when you were conceived.
And you, you dolt, have been greatly deceived
by old Witchy, whose really evil plot
is to plop us both into her big pot.
HANSEL: Dammit, why don’t you hush up, Gretel.
Witchy isn’t about to throw us in her kettle.
Besides, it’s all your fault that we are here.
I should be home on the couch drinking beer.
GRETEL: That’s your idea of work, isn’t it?
To have a beer or two, then sleep a bit.
But if you’d stopped to ask directions
we would have managed those intersections
and not got lost. But, Mr. Know-It-All,
remember pride goeth before the fall.
And now all we can do is sit and wait,
till Witchy-poo serves us up on a plate.