• Eight year old Rosie with the blood-red bonnet
    Sitting on her highchair
    Pronouncing her absurd sonnet;

    Or so it seemed, for Rosie seemed malignant,
    As the observing ladies deemed.

    Little Rosie was in fact casting a spell
    So destructive; cattle , crops and people fell.
    Why Rosie's rage was so great no-one knew exactly
    But the village elders; vultures of law, knew matter-of-factly.

    They had burned Rosie's mother at their at their ebony stake
    Dragged her from bed; leaving Rosie in their wake.

    Many had hoped to save the child,
    Cleanse her.
    Bless her.
    Save her soul, but all was too late
    For Rosie had always known, and did not wish to be saved.

    For she was her mother's masters' child
    A beautiful creation of blood and lies.
    Now Rosie the demon, they cannot castrate
    At last! she laughs;
    My hate they shall taste.