The crone sits hunched
in her little cell
has played all her cards
and cast every spell.
She's baron and empty
a dried up husk
and no one can see her
not even at dusk.
She was a wise mans daughter
now just a drudge
and life's passing by her
and that really hurts.
A young girl loves her
and takes her advice
calls her mother and other things,
nice.
Her daughters father
he twists the knife
the crone who sits hunched
he call's her wife.
She call's him DEATH.