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Description
Weary Traveller, heed my call,
For I have a tale to spin,
Of a woman, once so fair and tall,
Who met a fate quite grim.

In the days of yore, in a far-off land,
Where knights did joust and ladies sing,
There lived a lass, with skin so tanned,
Whose beauty made the birds take wing.

Her form was lithe, her eyes so bright,
Her hair of flowing gold,
And many a man did dream at night,
Of her in their arms to hold.

But fate had plans beyond their hope,
One day, as she did roam
She met a witch, a scowling mope,
That turned her fate to stone.

"Fair maiden, thou art so sweet,
A meal, I'd make of thee,
And with thy beauty, a juicy treat,
A pie, is what thou'll be."

The maiden, shocked, did try to flee,
But the witch's words had taken hold,
And soon, she found, to her misery,
Her limbs had frozen cold.

Bit by bit, she was deformed,
Into a pie, so sweet and fine,
Her face, atop the crust, adorned,
A sight so strange, yet divine.

And though she could not speak or move,
Her senses all did heighten,
As the heat, so warm and true,
Made her worry start to lighten.

And so, the men did come and go,
And tasted her pie so fair,
None knew of the maiden trapped below,
But all felt her presence there.

For though she was now but a pie,
Her essence lingered on,
And in the heat of passion high,
her juices flowed till dawn.

Description
Weary Traveller, heed my call,
For I have a tale to spin,
Of a woman, once so fair and tall,
Who met a fate quite grim.

In the days of yore, in a far-off land,
Where knights did joust and ladies sing,
There lived a lass, with skin so tanned,
Whose beauty made the birds take wing.

Her form was lithe, her eyes so bright,
Her hair of flowing gold,
And many a man did dream at night,
Of her in their arms to hold.

But fate had plans beyond their hope,
One day, as she did roam
She met a witch, a scowling mope,
That turned her fate to stone.

"Fair maiden, thou art so sweet,
A meal, I'd make of thee,
And with thy beauty, a juicy treat,
A pie, is what thou'll be."

The maiden, shocked, did try to flee,
But the witch's words had taken hold,
And soon, she found, to her misery,
Her limbs had frozen cold.

Bit by bit, she was deformed,
Into a pie, so sweet and fine,
Her face, atop the crust, adorned,
A sight so strange, yet divine.

And though she could not speak or move,
Her senses all did heighten,
As the heat, so warm and true,
Made her worry start to lighten.

And so, the men did come and go,
And tasted her pie so fair,
None knew of the maiden trapped below,
But all felt her presence there.

For though she was now but a pie,
Her essence lingered on,
And in the heat of passion high,
her juices flowed till dawn.