I beseech thee thy bloody waspish crone
Stay away from me, or there will be hell to pay
Hold your tongue and leave this space before me
She held her breath only to sputter and start again with a choke
Her answer back was a short sentence bleat and a strangled croak
Leaving the premises she walked a crooked mile, then belched from bloat
Her hand rises, and piece by piece wipes the earth of heart and soul
Lingering for a moment to glimpse back, turning all diamonds to coal
Paint thy picture any way you choose, and the world becomes cold
The crone sits now in silence, observing her landscape, barren dust
The metal was gold, now tossed aside for steel, only to lie to rust
Who are thee, old crone, they neighbor, they brother, who can we trust?
