In the corner of the inn Squats a Crutchling, brown and thin. If you would stay away from sin, Stay far away from Crutchling. His crutches, rotted 'way from age, Fill good men's hearts with holy rage. But e'en the oldest, boldest sage Dares not confront the Crutchling. And despite his dying, withered bum, He hobbles swift. Beware, my son! Ask not for whom the Crutchling limps; He limps for thee. If you but glance, you won't escape His silken eyes and gilded nape, And trapped beneath that stain-ed cape, You'll always serve the Crutchling. And so, my friends, be warned by me: Although he scratches for his tea, And limply licks his swollen knee, He's naught but naughty Crutchling!