• be wary when you see,

    on your street market spree,

    the son of the leathercrafters wife,

    calling out to you, his story of strife,

    for it you succumb to the childs kindly face,

    you will be lead to an unkindly place,



    he will play as though gleefull,

    as you attempt to be helpful,

    with his crying request,

    to rest his weary head, upon his mothers breast,



    but oh what horror you will find,

    once uncovered his lying mind,

    for his mother was there all along,

    writing the lyrics to this song,



    and so she hums a lullabye,

    her cleaver glints as you cry,

    "oh please, oh please, do not swing!"

    what little this plead will bring.

    for down it comes,

    (oh, it rings!)

    frist on your thumbs,

    ( they are the childs playthings)



    and next your head,

    which knocks you dead,

    with such a defening crack,

    that no cry flees your mouth,

    as your body falls silently slack,



    and she takes what she needs,

    with appauling speed,

    as her dedicated tool,

    slices your flesh, into a spool,



    she'll use the hide in many ways,

    to create the toys with which her little one plays,

    to fashion a bag,

    to sell to an unknowing hag,



    but their encounter with you is just their kill,

    their chance to watch the blood spill,

    so now they waltz away,

    to play their trick another day.