Beneath the boughs of a forest old,
Where whispers linger, damp and cold,
A curious house stands all alone,
With legs of chicken, carved in bone.
Stalking the glades it creaks and groans,
Its timbers warped, roof wind-blown.
A crooked chimney breathes black smoke,
While laughter curls—a witch’s joke.
Its feet scratch patterns in the soil,
A restless beast, immune to toil.
Each stride a riddle, each step a maze,
Through shifting shadows, through time’s haze.
Its door, ajar, invites the brave—
Or foolish souls who seek the grave.
Inside, the walls are strange and thin,
Dreams and nightmares live within.
Shelves of jars with eyes that blink,
A cauldron boils with wretched stink.
Bodies for chairs, a skull-lit dome
Baba Yaga’s eternal home.
Yet for all its fearsome gait,
The house knows hunger, love, and fate.
It seeks no malice, spares no grudge,
But walks the earth as Baba’s judge.
So should you wander near its path,
And feel the forest’s quiet wrath,
Speak wisely, friend, and tread with care
The chicken legs are always there.
