Father was livid, his anger radiating heat where he stood,

Hunger fueled his rage further,

Making him snap his teeth, bellowing

he would no longer be just an observer.

 

She’d stolen now thrice,

This wily intruder in our cozy cottage,

A brat, an insolent scoundrel,

Her grubby hands always ready to forage.

 

But no more, no Sir!

Will our porridge she steal,

She had to pay the price,

So, we made her our meal.

 

Her eyes were in the soup,

Her roasted torso was our hearty dinner,

Her limbs are wrapped for later use,

Her golden locks lie strewn in a corner.