This story was told us by the fireside.
In a moonless night, not even a star.
They said afore I was born was a tide.
The gods in those days must have raised the bar.
For three years, grandma in gaol did abide.
As they did for murder tried her so far.
They said she killed a witch by a roadside.
In the aft'noon when witches don't fly far.
It was that denting line we just can't hide.
In the glowing tribute we wrote for her.
That grandma killed a witch and no one cried.
As the law threw the prison gates ajar.
Much were her accusers, they might have lied.
But on and on to jail she took a ride.
Topic(s) of this poem: Family
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.