Once upon a time in a London town,
Where office labourers lived,
Where habitants frowned.
There lived a little girl with a bright red cloak,
Bright red boots and a little red bow,
Skipping along the pavement, contrasting from city smoke.
In her hands, she pushes a little red wheelbarrow.
Eyes as bright as rubies,
Lips a shade of red oak.
Every morning, happiness in each step,
She’d donate to the local bakery,
Handing over as much as she could prep.
She can only bake so many, in one night.
“How do you do it Miss?” The bakery boy would ask,
With a smile, she’d reply:
“Well really, getting them in is the only task.
My oven is always full as you may see,
Perhaps one day you could come and help me?”
Failing to resist he accompanies her home,
Following her from behind.
Finally reaching a small cottage alone.
“Now close your eyes and sit on that chair”
She instructs, a sweet tone lingering in the air.
Turning on the oven and places a bowl in his lap,
Leaving it in his possession, giving it a gentle tap.
“Now this is a secret recipe of mine,
You won’t tell a living soul in time
So while we prepare pastries so fine,
You WILL keep your eyes closed”
With a squelch and a squish,
The first ingredient rolls in.
Contributing to such a dish,
Is a trail of crimson…
Shrieking out in immeasurable pain
The baker boy grasps his left socket
Almost throwing the bowl onto the floor.
His shrieks silenced by the girl in red.
“Now now there’s no need to cry,
For our yummy cake is nowhere near ready!
Got to finish it before you say goodbye.”
With a cleaver she slices his shin,
Watching the pretty river’s flow begin
Catching each drop inside a measuring jug,
Gently giving the exposed vessels a tug.
He opens his eye to plan an escape,
“WHAT DID I SAY?”
She screeches like a venomous snake.
With the sharp edge she removes his tongue,
Flooding his mouth with blood
Painting a massacre on the floor.
Like a madman his feet take him in any direction,
Stumbling over tables. Chairs. Rugs. Crashing into walls.
“You cannot speak, and you can only see from one eye.
I have all the ingredients I need and can say goodbye.
But why make one cake when I can make many?
For your flesh will make enough to last a century.”
Using the cleaver to split his face in two.
The running stopped.
With her little red wheelbarrow, the ingredient is pushed in,
The large gaping oven empty, not knowing where to begin,
“Maybe you would work better as a jam tart but,
It’s getting you in that’s the hard part.”