Telling Stories
 
There is an ogre hidden in the wood,
a poker-fingered demon in the fire.
Headless horsemen haunt the misty glen
and linger by the bum-faced goblin
who lingers even longer by the byre.
 
There is a spirit of a murdered monk,
who pukes quite high, then higher,
pattering away all night on roofs of tin
to punish even little girls, who merely,
only, dare to think - 'My uncle is a liar!'.

Seth Crook

If you have any comments on this poem,  Seth Crook  would be pleased to hear them.