by Nick Gisburne
She snatches sleeping infants from their beds
The perfect sons, the daughters, sweet and pure
She brands a witch’s hex into their heads
And claims a scissored finger to be sure
Each stolen child is chained within a cave
To dig for threads of magic in the dirt
The darkness is their life, it is their grave
A world of boundless misery and hurt
But in each tiny crib there lies a curse
A changeling child, a sick and spiteful ghoul
A spirit, stained with all that is perverse
A rotten seed, a creature, cold and cruel
The changelings spread their sorrow as they grow
They breathe their evil nearer than you know
