Curses, another poem (someone must have taken over this blog) (Wasn't me, how about you Roe?)

The Cursemaker Returns

The cursemaker is coming.
The cursemaker is coming.
It's not enough to say it once.
Three times and you know it to be true.
The cursemaker is coming.

She'll be there giving birth to salamandar toads.
She withers birds with her eyes, and keeps them in a cage.
Her nettle-wine and fish-eye stew smell like sour sweat.
Don't let her touch you.
Don't get too close.
She'd try to snatch you and catch you and eat you.

The cursemaker is coming. 
Quickly, hold your breath.
The air stinks like ink. 
You know it to be true.
The cursemaker is coming.

Stones crumble at her feet, the water boils, the fishes bleed,
she has a grip to hold you down like a spider's web of iron.
She doesn't burn. She doesn't drown. She must be quite the -
Don't say it.
Don't even whisper it.
She'll know you did. She'll pin you down to stitch your lips.

The cursemaker is coming.