Shiver

In an inn, in a woods, in a European past  
Lived a woman with a kitchen and a garden in the back.  
She was a promiscuous lass with murderous intent  
Killing travellers as they passed with unparalleled contempt.  
 
Her space was well ways away from any form of settlement  
No towns nearby but quite established in a nestled place for residence.  
It was off a trail where peddlers hailed who'd often carry with them shipments.  
They'd often stop in need of sleep and to share some comfort from the missus.  
 
She'd bring them ale and on the side a serving of her fresh meat pie,  
With claims they're made from wild game that'd often pass her by.  
"No way!", the men would oft exclaim, impress-ed by her skill  
Ever being none the wiser it were they she'd plan to kill.  
 
By evening after eating well, her tenants start to lax  
So she'd offer them her naked lap in exchange for service tax.  
In a room she had them sit and wait while she'd take the time to ready,  
Mixing up a brand of brandy using flowers from her leavy.  
 
Throughout the night she'd serve the gents a banquet's worth of brew  
Until the men began to crawl, complaining they can't move.  
She'd reside beside their trying body whom were consciously asphyxiating,  
Being sure that they would see her last before they died there via suffocating.  
 
Immediately while her kill was fresh she'd drag the body to the cellar  
And procedurally hack away their limbs; her work was truly stellar.  
She'd take the meat and begin to cook it, by grilling or by boil  
And then she'd grind the bones to meal as to fertilize her soil.  
 
The meat once cooked gets baked and pied to serve it up to passersby  
And the garden fed recycled dead, such a morbid sort of resupply.  
So through the years she continued on though growing ever madder.  
What began as shakes and bouts of laughter, she died soaked in fecal matter.