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On the eve of september, a young girl conceived,
by an unknown gentleman, with little reprieve.
And so followed a court case, so dark and so vile,
to determine the future of mother and child.

For the first two years, the child grew up in a cave.
Till one lonesome day, mother was sent to a naïve,
of a convent far off, in the city of Blythe.
Never again to see, her beloved young child.

The girl, named Ursula, was taken by an abbott,
and brought up in a state school, not far from Stafford. 
But the poor girl was bullied, day in and day out,
for her nose was bent crooked, her knees were knocked south.

So later she returned, to the home of her youth,
to live amongst nature, to come back to her roots.
And married a young man, a carpenter by trade,
both lived off his income, from the things that he made.

But soon he did die, of plague, oh what shame she felt.
Oh! What a poor hand, this young woman, was dealt!
The town thought she was wicked, a plague on the soul,
for she began making potions, for young and old.

And later she took readings, from many lost souls,
by the lines in their palms and the shape of their toes.
Many deemed her a prophet, a sooth sayer of old.
She could turn any object, in water, to stone.

She predicted the fire of sixteen sixty six,
and even the internet of two thousand and six.
She was widely regarded, from that moment on,
as the witch of Knaresbrough, Mother Shipton.

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