You want to know your father.
I will tell you that he didn't deserve your mother.
His shadow shouldn't be:
Alright, then Listen to me,
or else I will throw you in my cauldron.
There once was a girl in love at the doorstep of our coven.
The target of her fancy thought her a fish.
She asked to become something to cherish.
We elders thought it a craze.
But couldn't get her out of her daze.
So we took out our Kettledrum.
Filled the cauldron with her flesh.
And we chanted this verse:
"Once a swine
boiling with thyme.
You shall demand his prime.
And if he gives his least
Then he shall be beast."
The bride in her veil.
The man in his mail.
And the wedding came.
The man promised his prime.
She gave him her flower.
The wedlock was in power.
And then the wedding went.
And the man learned what it meant.
She wasn't to live in a camp.
She wasn't a tramp.
She shouldn't live anywhere damp.
It had put her under duress.
Not to mention the filth in her dress.
This couldn't go further.
And when her belly did flutter.
Didn't he promise his prime?
Did he really waste it all on the wine?
Why did he share it with that harlot?
Your mother didn't want a Lancelot.
She confronted her knight.
It became a fight.
It was a real fuss.
When she returned to us.
He was rather crude.
Pushing her her out in the nude.
We gave her a dress we had woven.
And then she joined our coven.
We invited her man to a feast.
We showed him how much we detest.
We showed why he shouldn't have given his least.
We made the man a beast.
By chasing him into the forest.
Where he was forced to live in a nest.
Now enough of your father.
Pour in the water.
And then you will discover that this brew
will soon taste like honeydew.