In a blackened forest, they fear to tread
So many sounds come from this land of the dead
Fills tiny hearts with fear and dread
Until souls are lifted as they stumble upon the house of gingerbread
This old soul greets them, humble and warm
She tells them stories of old, protects them from the coming storm
A storm is a coming’ the old woman says
She gives a kiss to the girl and pats the little boy on the head
You must stay here and brave the weather
She notices the boy, as light as a feather
Fatten you up I will, the old lady smiled, shackled little boy in fetters
Lock them up tight with rope
Steal all their dreams, drown all of their hopes
The witch revealed in here blackened robe
Stirs her cauldron bubbling, throwing wood into the stove
Cooking children is what she does best
Like stealing the baby eggs from the eagle’s nest
But soon both children be in her belly
Entrails smoothed out upon bread with jelly
Must clean this place, lest it be smelly
After this meal she must rest, wonder if the news is on the telly?
By Jason A. Jones December 30, 2011, 2:30 AM
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