A hag bent with age
And worn with change
Hobbling with a sack
Across her bowed back
She climbed a small hill
And came under a tree
And hung bones while the wind was still
She chanted her rhyme
Then the wind blew in time
The bones began to sing
They sang of each thing
That awaits down the road
Things bad and things good
Then the wind died down
And the old hag began to frown
The bones were still
Atop the small hill
Hanging from a tree
A hangman's tree
The hag thought a moment
Then cackled with glee
For the song was decoded
And what the bones did cree
Would always be
For she was never wrong
But always right
And the old hag hobbled home
Filled with delight