Once I walked upon a query,
On a rock path my feet did stray.
Then, clad in black and dirty greys
I came upon two dirty hags.

"No bags are you allowed to carry!"
Cried the hags, two sisters merry.
Bent and kneeled did they, with cackled giggles.
From bushes near they picked ripe cherries.

Their two buckets along the path;
One would pick, the other laugh.
"It is good work we do collecting these,
all these precious ripe cherries."

"Call me Good." "Call me Bad."
"Not one cherry isn't glad,
of what we do for they who mock us;
Seperate them we do, to these two buckets."

Shrieked I did, in what they meant.
No choice these cherries,
of where they went.
Those two hags, kneeled, cackled and bent.
My heart did twitch from the wicked stench.

"My name," spit hag, "is Sherritare.
And this, my sister Tarrishare.
Her bucket sprouts bushes grown by the bay.
Mine I eat with every day."

"These bushes, fellow, yeild our fruit."
She grinned awide and flashed her tooth.
"Tarrishare," cragged Sherritare;
"Your nothing but a stupid twit!
For once I eat those cherries ripe,
I go and roast the pit."

"Shut up old hag!" jested Terri
"Where be us both, without new cherries?
"For the ones in which I plant by the bay,
Shall give us work at tommorow's day."

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