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onionlittle: Dread, She Did

Dere de Dreads came hollow’d on dat sordid wintersnacht,
drough de doorframe follow’d in a deed de Dame weak wacht.
Den of oak dey crept upon to steal her home and blume,
Den so spoke dey with a song to hide dey’r dark and brume:

“Hail me by de Beard, myn Dame, de pride for it is firm.
De world was for a stride mine and I’ve so slain de sunne,
and would in dis mushroom hide a boon for thy less nunne.”
Nunne lesser for false dings, so sought she de learn’d worm.

“Know me by de Book, meek Dame, de mind for it is true.
De desk was for a spell mine and I’ve here hung de herme,
and would in dis hard knot dwell a moon might thy not squirm?”
Squirm never as so seiz’d, den dole she de dunce his due.

“Feel me by de Ball, ma’Dame, de dance for it is fast.
De floor was for a sound mine and I’ve myn song de spew,
And would in dis longhorn bound a rune shall thy e’er blew.”
Blew ever more spit-sy, so sang she de gift’d last.

Dere de Dreads left wallow’d in a blue sky winterspracht,
dough de drawer lame swallow’d in a piece paid post mad macht.
De Drevil stirr’d she when hale and frett’d gloom she gasp’d.
De Devil heard here what frail and fetid doom did past