Author: P. Grey
She comes up slowly
Creep, creep, creep
Then grabs you by the scruff
And hoists you up for all to see.
"Where have you been?"
Comes the cackle
"Late for this! Late for that!
My mumbles fumble, tumble and rumble
But she sneezes and wheezes and does as she pleases
"You waif, you stray, you little wretch!
"How dare you fleece this orphanage?"
I am just a boy,
And boys go the roaming road
And with the roaming road goes the boy.
One day I'll find a home
And put up a sign
"No Battered Hags welcome here."
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