There was such a creature,
The likes of which you would not see,
In the days we live in.
Often carved into wood,
Warning others of the danger.
Buried in the silvery sand,
Would 'merge from under grains,
And scuttle on its six spindly legs.
Many people fell victim to its curse,
A stare in the eyes,
As it sits upon the chest,
And tail whips,
Giving victim a sting.
Were once plagued by the beast,
Until a Norseman named Thord,
Brought a secret weapon to use.
A lone weasel.
Released on the hunt,
The creature devoured the curse,
And freed the green hills of the plague of beasts.
Thord was venerated as a bringer of cure,
And a hundred weasels were released to the land,
From the Lizard to the chalky cliffs,
From the valleys to the peaks to the highlands as well,
The whole of the country was freed of the dreaded spell.
And the basilisk,
With its beady eyes of terror,
And deadly stinging whip of a tail,
Was finally no more.