I’m a fluffy ball containing nine kinds of poison (mixed with salt and witchcraft) which means I’ll pack a deadly punch.
The poor girl who is fleeing with her lover won’t know what’s hit her. I’ll knock her off her high horse and into the river.
When she comes to, she’ll be rooted to the mud with her head drifting on the surface. She’ll look like any other water lily.
I hope she’ll at least remember her history, hard as that will be. I hope she has a song.
At least the birds will hear it!
Oh, why did I have to be made as a weapon?