The weak old hag, reached in her bag
And pulled out the poisonous seeds.
She wept for her hens, as she fed them again.
Enjoying this terrible deed.
The eggs are from quail, the size of a snail.
The chicks they roam, far not from home.
It’s all she can manage; she’s crooked now and damaged.
And they’re vanishing one by one.
A poor old egg trader, with worry beside her.
She decides to settle the score.
Since poachers came to steal her babes.
Their seeds are from ripe Hellebore.