The hunted rustle in their seats,
Is it with her eyes she seeks,
Peering round the corner at the brittle and weak,
The brittle and weak,
Does a magic linger in it's bones,
A spell from a facetious crone,
Who resided at this quiet and lonely old folks home,

As the kitten purrs and kneads,
The elders fear it's company,
When she skims the room the question's Who's next,
The deadly hex,
For is she hops upon your knee,
The last breath in your lungs released,
And the women confide in gossiping whispers,
I'll surely miss her,

For the reapers hiding under a veil,
The swing of the sickle is the swing of it's tail,
With intentions that shall not be mentioned,
More than a bruise,
So if the walking clock catches your eye,
With a prediction that will never lie,
She'll bid you farewell,
She'll bid you farewell,
She'll bid you goodbye.