The Hag Who Lived in the Well


I speak to you now,

And it's true that it seems

As if my encounter

Was simply a dream.

But listen, dear stranger,

As I start to tell

Of the little old Hag

Who lives in the well.


I was walking along

On the old logger's road

When there, at my toe,

I witnessed a toad.

She croaked when I stared,

And I guess you would, too,

If you caught a weird animal

Staring at you.


The bumpy and pudgy old toad

Gave a shudder, then hopped 

And she let out a great croak again.

But this time it seemed that her croak,

Loud and hollow,

Was asking my feet to

Obediently follow.


I had nothing to do on this

Cold autumn day,

So I followed the toad

As she went on her way.

She stopped at this well

That was crumbly and rotted,

Then pointed inside

Where the water was spotted.


And there, oh stranger,

I saw her blank face,

That glared from the water,

As pale as white lace.

And then her wide mouth

That was cold as a stone

Cracked open an inch.

A SMILING old crone!


And then she spoke

In a voice like old gravel

Of futures and pasts

That would soon be unravelled.

I shuddered, for these words

No mortal should hear.

And soon I passed out

From my exquisite fear!


And here, dear stranger,

Is where you come in.

Forgive my rudeness,

It IS quite a sin--

But here you had come

At this old, crumbly well,

And to you I entrust

This story to tell!


But please, dear stranger,

Whatever you do,

Don't let your doubt of me

Overwhelm you!

Do not, DO NOT,

Look into that hole--

That Hag will torture 

Your spotless old soul!





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