She cast the runes, she threw the stones
And read them, softly crooning.
A fruitful journey, she intoned,
Is what I here see looming.

A little trip; ‘twill make you rich,
Rare treasures a-glitter you’ll find.
I’ll guide you to them, never fear,
If my wise words you’ll mind.

Now listen up, my pretty boy,
And make a promise true
That you’ll return here mighty quick
To divide this wealth in two.

The pretty boy was filled with gloom
At the thought he’d have to share
The bounty of his hard-won loot
And thought how he might dare

To cheat her. Still, he slit his skin,
And drew forth quick blood red,
A pledge to the crone (the simple fool),
That her offer she’d not regret.

He shivered at her toothless grin,
Bitter rue o’er filled his heart,
No withered idiot was she, he saw,
But had known his intent from the start.

The crone scooped up his quivering bones
And the silver coins in his purse.
Said with brooding voice and wicked glee,
Such liars are always cursed.