She’s an ordinary woman
You can see it in her face
She spends her days in knocking doors
And selling sprigs of lace
It’s only when you see her eyes
Her penetrating stare
The thinly veiled gleaming hints
Of madness lurking there
For she’s a fortune teller
She’ll gladly read your palm
Or sell you heather, rabbits feet,
To keep you safe from harm
Her smiles beguile, her easy charm
Will put you at your ease
You’ll welcome her with open arms
And cakes and cups of tea
But, beware this gypsy woman!
Don’t let her in your room!
Her palm is crossed with blood and death
And bears the mark of doom
For all the kind and trusting folk
Who had their fortunes told
Are lying in the cold dark earth
And never will grow old.