You rise to stir the pot,
an eye on the foul beast
which ere this point has sought
to keep you from your feast.
He’s still while you’re looking,
but soon you must tend to,
must mind your own cooking,
and taste your bitter stew.
You turn and grab the spoon,
bring ladle to your teeth.
You smile: It will be soon.
thus done, you leave your heath.
The dog is at it now,
his face covered in pricks.
He winces, but his vow
keeps him at his old tricks.
You shout; he runs away.
You grab the scattered quills.
So ends another day.
The weaving never stills.
Tale Told 