Sρσσку Lυℓℓαву

Hush little thief, don’t make a sound, The pickles sleep where they were found. You see the jar, you feel so brave… But I dig holes that fit the grave. 🥒 They’re not for you, they’re mine alone, Each one carved from brine and bone. You take a bite, you seal your fate— I sharpen knives when it gets late. Chorus (softly, sweetly): Close your eyes or lose your head, Olive’s mercy long since fled. Snatch my snack, and you will see, Why no one dares take food from me. I stitched this song with quiet thread, For those who thought I wouldn’t dread. But midnight snatchers, mark this verse: I’ve done it once… and worse and worse. 🥒 So go to bed and dream your dreams, While vinegar drips slow in streams. If you should crave what isn’t yours, I’ll show you all my basement floors. Final Whisper: One last word before you rest… Eat my pickles… be my guest. But don’t ask where the others went— The brine hides more than just the scent.