I’d like to tell a tale so grim,
Don’t pray for hope, mere foolish whim,
“Beware to all who enter here,
The trees themselves can sense your fear”
A place where ghouls and goblins wait,
For lonely travellers to seal their fate,
A place where hope has long since gone,
And eternal darkness lingers on.
I would not suggest you stop and rest,
March on my friend, I think that’s best,
Danger hides in every tree,
You doubt my word, just wait and see.
An unearthly stench wafts through this wood,
The demons sense your rich warm blood,
I urge you not to pitch your tent,
Heed my warning, it is well meant.
No sweet spring blooms will greet your path,
Anything of beauty incurs such wrath,
No sound of birds to fill the air,
A joyous song, they would not dare.
There is no sun, nor gentle breeze,
You won’t find safety among these trees,
The air is still, the air is calm,
With creatures here to cause you harm.
You feel the cold, your icy breath,
As in your footsteps follows death,
He’ll strike you down without a thought,
Tread carefully, this path has dangers fraught.
These woods are thick, their area vast,
Travellers stare, afraid, aghast,
But do not stop, no do not dwell,
For this could be a living hell.
The creatures here have but one goal,
They want to claim your very soul,
To bring an end to your miserable days,
They’re able to do this in a myriad of ways.
So heed both my warning and the sign,
Turn back from here while you have the time,
The reason they call it the Weeping Wood?
No weep of willow, but travellers’ blood.
