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Not by the spoon, or the whisk, or the ladle,
But by the babe that was locked in its cradle.
Down in the garden, all bathed in light,
The creeping, the crawling one waiting for night.
He peers on, yes, past maniacal deeds.
Sunken brown eyes amongst well-woven reeds.
The dance of the grasses, the thrum of their fear.
The wiggle and bounce of the blood-riven tear
A wail by the river, a shriek in the stair,
One toll of the bell, the scarlet one there.
Watching on, waiting, still as the hook,
Sharpened and frundled, straining to look.
His breath is still ragged - burning his chest,
Only one lung beneath reddened white vest,
The other, the second, is no longer there,
A wild night, the woods, some ham and a bear.
The babe lay forgotten, up ‘til this verse,
Is swaddled and curdled by the nursery nurse,
She tickles his belly with a one-fingered hand,
And into his mouth, pours the phial of sand.
The hook clicks back, locked into place,
The creeping one grins, a fan on his face,
He climbs up the ladder, twisted legs gain,
The babe starts a’screaming, writhing in pain.
The nurse jumps up - yes, he had done well.
With her meticulous hand she tumbles the bell,
There, by the window, the scarlet one grows,
They nod to each other: still nobody knows.
Feathered and thorny, he hands her a rose,
Red, white and blooming, she lifts to her nose,
The babe’s cries dye out, well under the curse.
Yes, she had done well, that nursery nurse.
In the rooms above, the master sleeps well,
He nor the wife disturbed by the bell,
Lay next to each other, yet distant in love,
Neither suspects the clasp of the glove.
He steps back, all rimy, and rips off the sheet,
The good nurse, and he, sit down to eat.
Not by the fork, spatula, ladle,
The master and wife, laid out on the table.
Evening draws on, each fancies a treat,
They struggle downstairs, scouring for meat.
The babe shared between them, divided up neat,
They start with the head. End with the feet.
But by the babe that was locked in its cradle.
Down in the garden, all bathed in light,
The creeping, the crawling one waiting for night.
He peers on, yes, past maniacal deeds.
Sunken brown eyes amongst well-woven reeds.
The dance of the grasses, the thrum of their fear.
The wiggle and bounce of the blood-riven tear
A wail by the river, a shriek in the stair,
One toll of the bell, the scarlet one there.
Watching on, waiting, still as the hook,
Sharpened and frundled, straining to look.
His breath is still ragged - burning his chest,
Only one lung beneath reddened white vest,
The other, the second, is no longer there,
A wild night, the woods, some ham and a bear.
The babe lay forgotten, up ‘til this verse,
Is swaddled and curdled by the nursery nurse,
She tickles his belly with a one-fingered hand,
And into his mouth, pours the phial of sand.
The hook clicks back, locked into place,
The creeping one grins, a fan on his face,
He climbs up the ladder, twisted legs gain,
The babe starts a’screaming, writhing in pain.
The nurse jumps up - yes, he had done well.
With her meticulous hand she tumbles the bell,
There, by the window, the scarlet one grows,
They nod to each other: still nobody knows.
Feathered and thorny, he hands her a rose,
Red, white and blooming, she lifts to her nose,
The babe’s cries dye out, well under the curse.
Yes, she had done well, that nursery nurse.
In the rooms above, the master sleeps well,
He nor the wife disturbed by the bell,
Lay next to each other, yet distant in love,
Neither suspects the clasp of the glove.
He steps back, all rimy, and rips off the sheet,
The good nurse, and he, sit down to eat.
Not by the fork, spatula, ladle,
The master and wife, laid out on the table.
Evening draws on, each fancies a treat,
They struggle downstairs, scouring for meat.
The babe shared between them, divided up neat,
They start with the head. End with the feet.
This, again, was greatness.
"The babe lay forgotten, up ‘til this verse"
Scchpeshully liked that bit. Very good indeed, Mr.FFF. You continue to please.
"The babe lay forgotten, up ‘til this verse"
Scchpeshully liked that bit. Very good indeed, Mr.FFF. You continue to please.
See?
Now go read the other one.
No-one else has dared.
Now go read the other one.
No-one else has dared.
That was purely excellent.
*Bows*
Thankee children.
Frundled is ... that thing, where the other stuff happens.
Yup.
Thankee children.
Frundled is ... that thing, where the other stuff happens.
Yup.
Great.
Simple as that.
Simple as that.
Ooh.
*shivers*
I won't be able to sleep tonight.
*shivers*
I won't be able to sleep tonight.
Good one
Good wan
Wanchancy for the baby
IIIIIIIIIII enjoyed.
I wasn't aware of the word 'rimy' before reading that, although I still don't know what 'frundled' means.
Good wan
Wanchancy for the baby
IIIIIIIIIII enjoyed.
I wasn't aware of the word 'rimy' before reading that, although I still don't know what 'frundled' means.
Not by the spoon, or the whisk, or the ladle,
But by the babe that was locked in its cradle.
Down in the garden, all bathed in light,
The creeping, the crawling one waiting for night.
He peers on, yes, past maniacal deeds.
Sunken brown eyes amongst well-woven reeds.
The dance of the grasses, the thrum of their fear.
The wiggle and bounce of the blood-riven tear
A wail by the river, a shriek in the stair,
One toll of the bell, the scarlet one there.
Watching on, waiting, still as the hook,
Sharpened and frundled, straining to look.
His breath is still ragged - burning his chest,
Only one lung beneath reddened white vest,
The other, the second, is no longer there,
A wild night, the woods, some ham and a bear.
The babe lay forgotten, up ‘til this verse,
Is swaddled and curdled by the nursery nurse,
She tickles his belly with a one-fingered hand,
And into his mouth, pours the phial of sand.
The hook clicks back, locked into place,
The creeping one grins, a fan on his face,
He climbs up the ladder, twisted legs gain,
The babe starts a’screaming, writhing in pain.
The nurse jumps up - yes, he had done well.
With her meticulous hand she tumbles the bell,
There, by the window, the scarlet one grows,
They nod to each other: still nobody knows.
Feathered and thorny, he hands her a rose,
Red, white and blooming, she lifts to her nose,
The babe’s cries dye out, well under the curse.
Yes, she had done well, that nursery nurse.
In the rooms above, the master sleeps well,
He nor the wife disturbed by the bell,
Lay next to each other, yet distant in love,
Neither suspects the clasp of the glove.
He steps back, all rimy, and rips off the sheet,
The good nurse, and he, sit down to eat.
Not by the fork, spatula, ladle,
The master and wife, laid out on the table.
Evening draws on, each fancies a treat,
They struggle downstairs, scouring for meat.
The babe shared between them, divided up neat,
They start with the head. End with the feet.
But by the babe that was locked in its cradle.
Down in the garden, all bathed in light,
The creeping, the crawling one waiting for night.
He peers on, yes, past maniacal deeds.
Sunken brown eyes amongst well-woven reeds.
The dance of the grasses, the thrum of their fear.
The wiggle and bounce of the blood-riven tear
A wail by the river, a shriek in the stair,
One toll of the bell, the scarlet one there.
Watching on, waiting, still as the hook,
Sharpened and frundled, straining to look.
His breath is still ragged - burning his chest,
Only one lung beneath reddened white vest,
The other, the second, is no longer there,
A wild night, the woods, some ham and a bear.
The babe lay forgotten, up ‘til this verse,
Is swaddled and curdled by the nursery nurse,
She tickles his belly with a one-fingered hand,
And into his mouth, pours the phial of sand.
The hook clicks back, locked into place,
The creeping one grins, a fan on his face,
He climbs up the ladder, twisted legs gain,
The babe starts a’screaming, writhing in pain.
The nurse jumps up - yes, he had done well.
With her meticulous hand she tumbles the bell,
There, by the window, the scarlet one grows,
They nod to each other: still nobody knows.
Feathered and thorny, he hands her a rose,
Red, white and blooming, she lifts to her nose,
The babe’s cries dye out, well under the curse.
Yes, she had done well, that nursery nurse.
In the rooms above, the master sleeps well,
He nor the wife disturbed by the bell,
Lay next to each other, yet distant in love,
Neither suspects the clasp of the glove.
He steps back, all rimy, and rips off the sheet,
The good nurse, and he, sit down to eat.
Not by the fork, spatula, ladle,
The master and wife, laid out on the table.
Evening draws on, each fancies a treat,
They struggle downstairs, scouring for meat.
The babe shared between them, divided up neat,
They start with the head. End with the feet.