There was a woman with a kind face,
Besides that, I believe she had no grace,
How she came to live there none knew,
Behind the church, she lived smelling like stew.
The woman with the kind face,
Had no friends, family or stake
Every Sunday she went to the market
Spoke to none, pointing only to the potato packet
One day, the woman with the kind face,
Walked amidst the children yelling, Hag! Craze!
She walked with a spring, a limp-a kind of churn,
Cracking her fingers at every eye’s return.
The woman with the kind face,
Her face, I believe, ripened with rage
Before they knew it, she hurled over the banister,
and kicked them all to the gutter.
This woman with a kind face,
All around the village, she hurled bullets,
Some were pickled, some were rounded,
As for the rest of us, she left us confounded.
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