OLD WOMAN is the thing with feathers
That perches in a shoe,
And sings the tune of broth and bread ,
And children fifty-two,
And bitter in the wind is heard;
And sore must be the whip
That could abash little children
That kept them without lip.
Iíve heard it in a nursery rhyme,
And on the peaceful sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
She never did beat me.