by Nick Gisburne
They find her, starving, shackled to the floor
The skeletons are scattered round the room
Investigation soon discovers more
And something worse: a dozen, in her womb
But none could be the remnants of a child
Their bones are tiny replicas of men
What evil left this woman so defiled?
What happened in this wicked place, and when?
The clue, the puzzle’s most important piece
The evidence on which the story clings
Is one no court, no inquest, can release
The dead, the bones, the bodies, all have wings
A psychopath, a fairy, cast this curse
There is no fiend, no creature, more perverse
