Behold the great goblin maiden
with her sharp nose spiraling round,
her ears long and her head laden
with curly white hair to the ground.
Her laughter is not like a harp
and her voice is not sweet honey;
her skin is green, her teeth are sharp,
and her large yellow eyes runny.
She does not enjoy any fruit
nor the fragrance of perfumed oil,
her nose is like a long taproot
seeking worms beneath the dark soil.
She snacks on fat bugs like bonbons
and slumbers in a bed of withe,
awaiting the oncoming dawns
in a swamp swarming with her kith.
Although no knights seek her green hand,
they seek her when upon their quest
through the soggy, boggy upland
to pierce her hungry-hearted breast,
for she steals the false hearts of men
with her glamor, cunning, and guile,
plucking the crimson meat out when
enchanting their greed with each wile,
with each pile of gold and gemstones
mined from deep beneath the peat bog
where men shrink to leather-bagged bones
and phantoms swirl in the pale fog.
Yet, come knights, come kings, come all priests:
they shall fail, shall fall, are thus slain
and gutted, in turn, like dumb beasts
in this butcher maiden’s domain.
For what are her truest treasures
except the skulls of foolish men?
What are her keenest of pleasures
except hearts overripe with sin?
Tangleroot And Tressknot 