There lies a lady castaway,
up where her lonely lattice lay,
a tiny, tangled hideaway
of shadow sheltered disarray;
shy this spinster ever weaving,
while a widow never grieving
lustful lovers, long passé,
who dared stray and see her prey.
Keen are they who heed her sway,
fleet afoot and on their way;
for the suitor disbelieving,
mesmerized with misconceiving,
will meet the maker in her fray,
and feel her feed this judgement day.
So, woo the weaver if you may,
but widowed, always, she will stay.
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