Baba Yaga had her flaws
Legend says a witch she was
She liked to feast on baby meat
Her house was built on chicken feet
And like other Slavic crones
She kept, in boxes, children’s bones
She liked to shake the boxes since
They were, to her, nice instruments
“What fine melodious sounds!” she’d chatter
“Shake the box and hear them clatter!”
She’d shake the bones until they broke
Then mail them to the dead kids’ folks
Seething parents got the boxes
And grabbed their pitchforks, quick as foxes
“Oh, she’ll pay, that lousy witch!
For turning kids’ bones into kitsch!
We’ll turn her into minced up meat!”
They found her house on chicken feet
And cried: “A-ha! That there’s her coven!”
Zap! They landed in her oven.
Roasted well and served with punch
They made a quick and tasty lunch
Then Baba Yag said, “Shakalaka!
Time to make some bone maracas!”
That she did—made more and more
Until she had a music store
Where hags and satyrs, orcs and trolls
Bought rattles made from murdered souls
But none enjoyed the sounds as much
As Baba in her chicken hut
Who, to this day, when she’s alone
Will dance around her creaky home
Sloppy drunk on newt skin grog-a
Shaking kids’ bones. Baba Yaga.
