The Gingerbread House

By John Ower

We made our little girl

A gingerbread house.

Despite sweet cement

It leaned as if it yielded

To a hurricane wind.

Our baby took one look at it,

Said it was a witch's house,

And burst into tears.

She was a prophet in her way.

During our estrangement

The witch flew out the window

Riding on the storm.

She cast a wicked spell

That made us hate each other.

And now between the two of us

In the finest fashion

Of the old fairy-tales

We gobble up our child.

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