The Weaver

The Weaver plays the fiddle,

The Weaver charms the kids,

The Weaver gobbles sinners,

The Weaver is our king.

No one knows where he came from,

But everyone knows to fear.

For The Weaver is a crafty fellow with one hundred and one heads,

In each and everyone one of them reflects a naughty child's bed,

Beacuse, The Weaver is the keeper of all our daily sins.

The Weaver knows our future,

His heart is like a mirror,

Stained black. Unflinching. Unchanging.

He reflects, unclouded by prejudice.

The Weaver is out maker.

He binds, and breaks, and snaps, evil strands.