Rotten in Denmark

I smell something rotten in Denmark,
a sour hint of worms to come.
I am so sharp and ready,
so clever and so true.
I dream every day of her dying,
the poison-tongued beast.
I dream every day of snatching her daughter,
and taking her to my fearful tower,
where I will teach her sweet songs to sing,
and she will bloom in kindness.

I smell something wrong and rotting.
I creep along the scent to its source.
Behind walls and echoes hides the crime,
my claws will bring it to daylight.

I am as wicked as they come.