This crimson cloak I wear will hardly guard

Against the wolves and witches of this wood.

Such blazing color makes it slightly hard

To disappear beneath this flaming hood.

My brother, Hansel, tries to keep away

From such fiendish beasts and woodland ghosts.

We've found that breadcrumbs rarely save the day,

And candy houses don't have friendly hosts.

We once had triplet pigs that from us flew;

Since then, we've heard bizarre and horrid tales

Of fallen houses, burning wolves in stew,

Down fearsome paths as black as nightingales.

I hope Ma takes those sweets to Granny's door.

I don't like wolves. We've been there before.