There’s something about the leaves,
the ways in which they whistle.
They whip and weave around you,
they’ll cut you like a thistle.
They don’t like outsiders,
you aren’t one of us,
turn back now,
it’s the woods you shouldn’t trust.
The trees tell stories of a dark,
The trees are stained,
the leaves are sharp,
it’s best if you just go.
You wouldn’t want to end up here,
in wind you’ll blow.