There is a little old lady,
Who only ventures out at midnight.
So old so frail and so slow,
With appallingly bad eyesight.
She leans heavily on her white stick,
She taps to her left taps to her right.
And is always bent double over,
For she is so innocent old and slight.
Each tap is music to the ears,
Of every thug and twisted rapist.
A lonely pied-piper pensioner,
A target they simply can’t resist.
And when they viciously confront her,
Her stick becomes a long blade.
And they pay in pool of their blood,
For the disastrous mistake they’ve made.
For this lady’s not a lady,
But a fearless vigilante.
He always dresses this way,
Just to up the ante.
He calls himself The Headhunter,
And is a master of disguise.
He rids the streets of crime,
By revealing his deadly surprise.
It’s all to no merciful avail,
When you beg plead and pray.
And when your head is severed,
You’ve simply made his day.
His dark heart if he has one,
Will never skip a dark beat.
He always collects a trophy,
Your head now at his feet.
So beware this little old lady,
She is one to fear and dread.
If you confront her after midnight,
You’ll simply lose your head.
Copyright Shaun Cronick 2019. All Rights Reserved.
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