by Nick Gisburne
We don’t get many your type, this far north.
I’d have to count their faces. I forget.
I don’t like all this busy back and forth,
So when I close my mind up, that’s me set.
You’ll stay with us. My boy will make the bed.
I like to keep him busy since the crash.
He’ll ask you for some butterscotch, or bread,
But never let him know you carry cash.
My sister died a month or two ago,
But come inside and see her, if you like.
She’s hanging in the cellar, with the crow,
But now I’ll need her shackles, and a spike.
You’ll feel a little dizzy, dear, but then
You’ll never have to walk this way again.
