There was a woman that I knew
Whose heart was fair and kind,
Possessed of manner good indeed
And an untroubled mind.

This woman was a friend to me
And all around who knew her.
In goodness, joy, and innocence
No spirit could be truer.

Until one day, one sunny day,
She woke to something queer.
She rose from bed and shook her head
And looked into the mirror

And when she saw, she dropped her jaw
And long she stared in fright.
For now her skin, her rosy skin,
Had turned a shade of white

She asked her friends, and none could say
Just why this came to pass.
"Go ask the church, the kindly church,"
They told the bonnie lass.

Inside she felt quite healthy, though
Outside her skin was plain.
She went into our friendly church
And hoped they could explain.

She asked them, "What is wrong with me
That makes my skin so light?"
"A demon has your soul," they said.
"Fear not, we'll set it right."

"A demon?!" she cried out. "That cannot be.
I feel just fine!"
"The church knows best," the high priest said.
"Come, come, there's little time!"

They dragged her to their temple;
On their altar stripped her bare.
They all ignored her protests as
They deafened her with prayers.

And on! Their chats, and holy rites.
They prayed for days on end.
A long and endless battle with
A nonexistent sin.

The days went on, and in the end
Her friends became concerned.
They went to ask the temple for
Her swift and safe return.

The priests were understanding, for
They'd labored night and day.
"The church knows best," the priests replied.
"We'll end this right away."

The priests went back into their church,
The woman to retrieve.
And when they brought her body forth,
Her friends could not believe.

She lay before them motionless.
Her sweet lips took no breath.
A dagger pierced her kindly heart,
Her skin now pale from death.

"Fie! What is this?!" her good friends cried.
"This isn't what we said!
We all desired her safe return,
And now our friend is dead!"

"Her soul shall rest and find its peace.
The demon now is gone.
The church knows best," proclaimed the priests,
"For we are never wrong."

"Her soul will rest," her friends agreed,
"But this is all I see.
There was no reason for this death
And there shall never be."

So if your friends grow extra toes
Or feathered eagle's wings,
Or eyes turn black, or speaks in rhyme,
Or more unusual things,

Don't take them to the temple
For you know what they will do.
Your innocence won't save you if
Your hair is turning blue.

However free of sin you be,
A demon's grip is all they'll see.
"The church knows best," they will decree.
In murder they will set you free.