Saturday 26 February 2011

Mary Had A Second Head

Mary Had A Second Head
by Nick Gisburne

Mary had a Second Head, a blessing you’d suppose
But everywhere that Mary went she punched its little nose
Second Head grew sick of this and bit her on the face
And so to war heads One and Two did furiously race

Mary gave a mighty slap to Two’s defenceless cheek
And playing dirty even tried to blind the little freak
Two took over Mary’s hand and poked her in the eye
The fingers dipped in lemon juice, they made poor Mary cry

Escalating violence saw Mary’s hair pulled out
Which as she’d grown it long for years she wasn’t pleased about
Mary picked the iron up to burn Two’s stupid face
And, aiming for the eyebrows, seared them off without a trace

Brandishing spaghetti tongs, she jammed them in one ear
But Second Head whacked Mary with a bottle from the rear
Weapons of increasing force were chosen by each side
“No mercy!” was the cry they gave, across the short divide

Mary made the first mistake and dropped her face’s guard
And Second Head, armed with a bat, came in low, fast and hard
But Mary had a little plan, increased her height, and so
The swinging, speeding baseball bat had nowhere else to go

It hit the other head full on and cracked its little skull
But Second Head had one more sneaky trick that it could pull
Picking up a kitchen knife, it cut her scrawny neck
And Mary, drenched with crimson blood, fell hard and hit the deck

“That’ll teach you!” came the Second Head’s triumphant yell
Then realised the shared supply of blood was hers as well
“Perhaps we should have compromised. More talking was required.”
And Mary’s Second Head lay down beside her and expired

Thursday 10 February 2011

Three Little Boxes

Three Little Boxes
by Nick Gisburne

It is midnight at Christmas, and under the tree
There are three little boxes, as neat as can be
Tied up tight to the corners, with ribbons and bows
Are the names of three children, to whom we suppose
These are presents from Santa, brought here on his sleigh
For the three little children, this cold Christmas Day

In the garden are criss-crossed the trails of their feet
They have built up their snowmen and each is complete
And the moon like a spotlight bathes all in its glow
And the three little snowmen stand proudly as though
They are three little soldiers, their eyes gleaming bright
In the cold of the winter, the chill of the night

Though the embers are dimming, the coals cooling quick
On the hearth lies old Rover, stretched out on the brick
He had chased the three children and tumbled and rolled
Till at last they had led him inside from the cold
And they fed him and loved him and then as he slept
They had tiptoed away and to bed they all crept

If you peek through the curtains you’ll see him I’ll bet
See the red-breasted robin, not nesting, not yet
Sitting still by the window, who knows what he sees?
Did he notice the reindeer fly over the trees?
Was the robin a witness as Santa flew down
And returned, as he promised he would, to the town?

Yes the eyes of the robin took all of it in
As the man we call Santa approached with a grin
With a sack full of boxes slung over his back
And those jolly red features, the boots big and black
He walked up to the doorway, and there did he stand
With a gleam in his eyes... and a knife in his hand

As he pushed the door open and entered the hall
There was faithful old Rover, who brought him a ball
He could fetch it or chase it, or run for a treat
For a small, tasty morsel, for something to eat
Or as any dog loves, just a stroke of his coat
Santa tickled his chin... and then cut out his throat

It was sudden, no struggle, no effort, no fight
And a life quickly ended on Christmas Eve night
Then he turned and he stood at the foot of the stair
And the robin, still watching, now followed him there
And the smell of the blood at the scene of the crime
Disregarded by Santa, who started to climb

There were seventeen carpeted steps to the top
Before Santa and robin both came to a stop
Then the sack filled with boxes was put to the floor
And he took out just one and brought it to a door
Where the breath of an infant, so small where he slept
Was the signal for Santa, and inside he crept

Though the robin stood watching, he could not go in
Couldn’t witness this madness, this evil, this sin
Into three of the bedrooms the bearded man stole
And whatever his labour, whatever his goal
He took three little boxes, but brought them all back
And each one he then carefully placed in his sack

But the door to one bedroom he left well alone
Only children he visits, this much is well known
And the robin saw Santa step soft on each stair
While the parents, still dreaming, slept on unaware
And with Santa now gone there was no more to see
Just the three little boxes left under the tree

Near the window the robin sits far from his nest
For the blood of this night colours even his breast
The old dog on the hearth lies there dead, not asleep
And the eyes of the snowmen are real, and they weep
For the three little children lie still in their beds
And in three little boxes... are three little heads


by Nick Gisburne

There are girls who are sweet, there are girls who are not
For Angelica, ‘sweet’ was a stretch
Spoiled and spiteful, whatever she asked for she got
To her parents she’d only say ‘Fetch!’

And they’d take her a toy or the tastiest treat
Or a beautiful bauble she’d break
But the one thing she needed to make her complete
Was a thing she decided to take

‘We can’t fetch you a fairy.’ They’d said it so much
But it finally forced its way in
If Angelica wanted a fairy to touch
She’d rely on the talents within

Many months the young girl-child now studied the skies
And the fairy folk’s fondness for flight
Though they shy from the sun, after dark they will rise
And in star-shine will dance with delight

So Angelica captured the light of a star
And she bound it with cobwebs and dew
For a fairy, to find it, would travel afar
And this fact the young miscreant knew

In a jar near the window the stolen star hung
While Angelica feigned that she slept
And in moments her terrible trap had been sprung
As inside it the fairy now crept

And as soon as its feet landed lightly within
And it reached to release the star’s light
It at once felt the tightness of tethers dig in
As the spider-silk snares closed up tight

In an instant Angelica ran to the trap
To behold what her plan had procured
And the fiendish young female then started to clap
Upon seeing the fairy secured

With a pencil she prodded and poked the poor thing
And she laughed as it struggled to fly
But it quite unexpectedly started to sing
And Angelica started to cry

For its song was the sweetest and saddest lament
Filled with sorrow, defeat and despair
And Angelica’s heart, be it blackened and bent
Felt a flame of regret flicker there

In her tears flowed contrition, regret for the wrong
She had done to this delicate thing
And as long as she listened and suffered its song
To one shred of remorse she might cling

Now, Angelica tipped out the jar on the bed
But the bonds were too tight, she could see
So she snipped with great care at the spider-silk thread
And the fairy fell, fragile but free

And its singing now ceased, yet it did not escape
But lay breathless, exhausted and drained
Wings lay fragile and formless and bent out of shape
Once-fair features were troubled and pained

But Angelica suddenly knew what to do
For the star, still secure, was the key
And she broke its bonds open and let the light through
And the star of the fairy shone free

In a flash, in an instant, the blink of an eye
The good fairy stood strong and sublime
With the star in its hands it was ready to fly
But for one more thing, still there was time

She had trapped it and tortured it, laughed at its pain
Yet the fairy’s forgiveness was swift
In a shower of sparks, magic powers arcane
It was gone, but had left her a gift

It was wrapped in green paper and tied up with string
And inside was a box of burnt wood
And within this black box, a most delicate thing
A small cake, stained the colour of blood

For Angelica, fairies fell far behind food
And in seconds she’d scoffed the whole cake
Somewhat filling, it left her serene and subdued
With a terrible cranial ache

There was something inside young Angelica’s head
And it wriggled and tickled her brain
Having munched on the magical meal before bed
It was sending her slightly insane

Feeling dizzy and drowsy and weary and weak
Young Angelica lay down to rest
And she dreamed of the fairy folk’s eerie mystique
But awoke feeling deeply depressed

She was flat on her face and her arms were quite numb
Though the horrible headache was gone
But one thought above all beat her brain like a drum
That the light on the ceiling was on

She rose up from the pillow, but ‘rose’ isn’t right
For Angelica flew from the bed
Yes the gift of the fairy was magical flight
But still learning, she soon hit her head

“I can fly!” shrieked Angelica, “Truly I can!”
“I can soar like a skylark! I’m free!”
“And I don’t need a fairy! Ignore the old plan!”
“I have wings! I can fly! Look at me!”

But to turn was too tricky this novice now found
While rebounding again from the light
She could hover and circle and flutter around
But could never quite go left or right

Soon Angelica’s efforts were more of a chore
As she busily bounced to and fro
There was something not normal, there must be much more
But of one thing she did not now know

For the odious item Angelica ate
Was the penalty paid for her crime
Her most frightful of felonies settled her fate
And in truth it was not before time

While most fairies fight fairly, and some call us ‘friend’
There are those from a much darker cloth
Though Angelica’s actions are hard to defend
She must live her short life as a moth

I’ve said ‘sweet’ was a stretch, but was ‘short’? Sadly not
And this fate, was is just? Maybe so
But her mother knew naught of this fairy-filled plot
And saw only the light, still aglow

“Why Angelica darling, it really is late
And you ought to be snuggled in bed
Let me turn out the light and let’s have no debate
Or your troublesome tantrums,” she said

As she entered the bedroom Angelica saw
That her mother was standing nearby
And resisting the light, she flew straight to the door
And cried, “Mother! Just look! I can fly!”

But her mother heard mothish, a curious tongue
Such a language her ears fathomed not
With a moth at her mouth she most urgently swung
In a motion best labeled a ‘swat’

And Angelica, dying, could not recall why
She had thought what fun fairies would be
And the last thing she heard, as a beetle walked by:
“Hey! Just look what the elves did to me!”