Curse of the Frozen Witch
Ugly old crone on the outskirts of town
Kept to herself in her ramshackle hut

Living off of alms
Pennies for herbs, potions and poultices
Maybe arcane arts fueled her talents
But she never harmed a soul

Nobody paid much mind to Ol' Moll Dyer
But then fortunes turned to ash

A plague of flu on funeral winds
Livestock met the reaper in droves
Then one February night
Lightning rent snow-driven clouds

A heap of empty beer mugs
Littered the alms-house tables
" 'Tis that old witch's fault, this"
The storm had finally burst the dam
Torches, pitchforks, axes and rope
There'd soon be hell to pay
Hut went up in a blaze of righteousness
Ol' Moll fled the flames, into the frozen wood

Trudging through the snow, she collapsed upon a stone
As the icy grip of death wrapped its fingers 'round her heart
She held one hand aloft, fist raised to the sky in rage
Calling up old black magicks that she'd learned but never used
Miasma of misfortune swept through the cursed town
Still Moll Dyer's rock holds the image of her frozen, dying hand