| Ysabella, beware the Baba Yaga
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| If you’re caught out late at night then
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| Ysabella, if you see the Baba Yaga
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| Pestle and mortar in full flight then
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| Ysabella, run from the Baba Yaga
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| Run from the Baba Yaga
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| Run girl, run girl, run
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| If the Baba Yaga catches you you’re done
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| Ysabella grew up in a house down by the river
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| with her wicked stepmother and her cruel stepsisters
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| who would never lift a finger to get anything done
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| leaving little Ysabella as the only one
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| to venture out into the forest where the stories told
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| of a mad, unholy being both capricious and bold
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| and over overwhelming power, Baba Yaga, infamed
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| for her appetite for children, Bella’s father used to say.
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| One evening Ysabella found, through no fault of her own
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| That she was still out in the forest when she should have been at home
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| And squinting in the darkness for a light to be her guide
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| Saw the flicker of a lantern in the distance and decided
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| To make her way towards the light, for little did she know
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| Baba Yaga watched her as she went below
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| And swooping down she caught the poor girl in a hempen sack
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| And took her back to serve her at the chicken-leg shack.
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| Each day she had to clean the house and yard
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| And pick the black grains and the white peas
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| from the never ending wheat.
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| Cook supper from the mushrooms in the wood
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| The way the Baba Yaga would
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| and press the oil from poppy seeds.
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| She worked her fingers to the bone
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| And when she thought she was alone
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| She knelt and clasped her hands to pray.
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| No sooner had she started speaking
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| Baba Yaga stood there, screeching
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| Broken, crippled, howling out in pain.
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| Ysabella took her chance and bolted for the door
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| And, panicked, scrambled through the woods the way she had before
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| Pursued by men on horseback in the dreadful witch’s charge
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| She lost her footing, fell and cracked her head on something hard
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| And that was the last we saw of Ysabella. |