She raises up her sharpened blade,
Blistering with spite,
She drives it down, that lethal spade,
And brings one to the light.
Thick and dark, the blood runs cold
It pools beneath midnight.
The girl takes to the streets of old
For there wait more to smite.
She licks her lips
For crimson drips
Of sickly liquid gold.
While every night
She does no right
In clearing out the mold.