What am I doing here?

I've been itching to do this for a while now, and finally couldn't hold myself back any longer. My YouTube account, Gisburne2000, is coming along nicely and has a generous number of readings of classic poetry and prose, plus readings of my own work, but it wasn't enough. YouTube is just video/audio. That's it. There's no good way of posting thoughts, feelings, ideas, interesting links, or any of the dozens of other things which occur to me as I'm researching, recording, editing, writing, or just generally thinking about my day.

A blog lets me do that. So here I am.

I will of course be adding any newly created videos to this blog, but I don't want to add all the existing ones en masse because the place will be swamped. I may add them one at a time, now and again, and perhaps add a bit of commentary to them as well. I have no definite plans for that, so I'll see how it goes.

One thing to be aware of: I ramble! I want to say everything and anything when I get started, and I don't stop until I do. So I'd better get out of here before you get my life story and/or what I had for breakfast.

Porridge.

Too late.

Welcome to my blog!

The Beeble of Crispy Dash Night

The Beeble of Crispy Dash Night
A Poe Pum in Four Spits

by Nick Gisburne

---

Spit the Mould

Wilt thou listen, my screebers? Give hark to my tale
To the Beeble of Crispy Dash Night
Though thy bibs be full glutted, nogs wizzled with ale
Fuddle in, slink the door, grim the light

In the tweeny of Nazbeth there wimpled a maid
Thence to Maisy an Ungle did tweeve
With a bazzle of brillums and glitting cascade
Quoth the Ungle, “Sweet Maisy, believe!”

“I have swung hence from Higgins, beyond the poo sky
And bring missage and bruise from Lord Spod
Thou shalt bear him a babbums, Spod’s gravy, his fry”
And he sniggled her miff with his rod

Maisy’s hubbling, young Slow-Deaf, nebbed aught of this plan
Though his peeps spied the spand in her girth
So on quinkies they jungled to Bethum-ham-han
To the sween of the bab’s Viking birth

’Twas a nox like no other, full bust were the nins
For their squint they could find not a jume
Till a rundly old keepman gave solace and grins
In the stubble, where mookers did loom

Slow-Deaf’s gaze was sore fuzzled as Maisy did squat
With the babbums the Ungle foretold
From betwixt her spread neggies the Younger Spod shot
Leaving mama’s bare miff wincey cold

So she papped him with widdling and gayed him in clay
’gainst the fristious, frozbinum night
Then anuncified longly (the keepman did say)
“Here is Cheeses! What cradish delight!”

---

Spit the Bacon Scent

’Top the hillard o’er Bethum lay sheppies at seat
Heaping switch on their barlums all eve
While the lums gave good nibble, the sheps nitched their feet
For the fristing kite gave them much grieve

As they tivelled their hookies and siddered the sky
In the carp nest flished dizzy bee light
And with clangitass grunder, from Higgins on high
Zimmed the Ungle of Spod into sight

“Shigger not,” quoth the Ungle, full nebbing their drib
But they shiggered anon for a tweam
“Tip thy lugs,” quoth again he, “and ganter thy nib”
“Hear the noz that I fling all abeam”

And he spooked them of Cheeses, of Maisy, and Spod
For the gravy was Ding among Den
When the sheppies paid quizit, the bab was a-nod
For the timmo showed leet (almost ten)

“’Tis the gravy,” they chummered “All Hamish the Ding!”
And they booed on their tummocks and whupped
Unto Maisy their hankus was dacious and fring
For the Viking that no hum had tupped

Lo, the sheppies were jibbous, for this was their Sav
Come to nurkle each swimmer with paste
And for Cheeses their woodchip was lampus and clav
Taking noz to their hillard in haste

---

Spit the Worms

Now a spinkly new brillum grew daz in the skee
Glimpsed by yeastily mung, rolled and pies
Thrice-fold beardical duffoes cast peeps to the pea
And did stromigonomicalise

In their scrillies was writtled a predicatil
And its tulligal tex gave exhort
“Let us chum,” sang the duffoes, “and follow the brill”
“’Tis a sign of tremungulous port”

And to fingle this kinko, the wisdial mung
Took a jungle Joslamapam way
To the cratto of Beebod, its roolious kung
Whose great luggies tipped all they did say

“We be strommers, O Beebod, in chaz of yon brill”
“Seeking aud with bo-babbums anew”
“Dost the gravy lie hither? Give shuft if thou will”
“Haze the tod - flymow Ding, lawnmow Doo!”

But to Beebod their rattle gave grumious frum
And to lucify chowder he furred
“I would trot to this bo-ding. Whence backard ye come”
“Bring me geopositional word”

Soon the mung rivved in Bethum, most hulio night
Yet confangoed they fingled him still
Till the brillum, full dazzy, the stubble did light
And to Cheeses the duffoes did nil

Bringing spits full and splendif, trogged long on their germs
Each a primmertag, spensivo tring
’Twas three spits they did offal: mould, bacon scent, worms
And in jummilai woodchip did sing

On the retinal jungle the mung paid no stop
And to Beebod spock nutterly void
’Twas the Ungle gave tippy of Beebod’s vile chop
To the neddles of Beth’s gravy boid

That the bab was in piddle young Slow-Deaf took drum
Quick to Egg-Wiped the fammo did traip
Now the Nitty Vit Stirry falls ’culiar mum
Not a soss can we grimble or scrape

---

Spit the Beeble

’Tis a Beeble, good screebers, a mitty, no more
For this end of a leg is full fict
Cummerbund to thy sancty, bliv not this be jen
Let not relly-ginitis afflict

Mayhap aye there be Maisy, and Slow-Deaf the hub
And a babbums - such gravies be norm
But from Higgins, an Ungle, some wingular chub?
How canst bliv in this follious gorm?

Banish thunks to its truvy, prof podger none zist
Unto Viking a fant was ne’er gat
Though her miff be well tiggled, the cert lay atwist
Nay, not Spod, atop Slow-Deaf yon sat

Not a maid but a mussy, not Viking but vix
Yea, in shamulous trot they did germ
Venting hushifal sea crows a Beeble might fix
And discrepiant babbums confirm

And the sheppies? Thrice addled, a skunkifo crew
With cold mungo saw gain to the plan
Further witterling dunkos, apaid and abrew
Stood as duffoes and stubble keepman

And to Beebod? No scrillies give writtle to this
Though in hissy was writtified much
Yet the Beeble tripped speedo, from kisser to kiss
And now duncified churlkins bliv such

Be ye not such a churlkin, ’nounce fully the yarm
Cast all peeps to the mooker-dun sight
Of the nonsico mitty, most twaddifal barm
In the Beeble of Crispy Dash Night

Little Red Ruby’s Hood

Little Red Ruby’s Hood
by Nick Gisburne

---

Part 1 - The Hood

It all began when Ruby said,
“I want a hood. It must be red.”
It was the colour she most craved,
And so her darling mother saved
To buy her little girl a hood,
Reward for being sweet and good.
And came the day, though times were tough,
When finally she’d saved enough.

The moment had arrived at last.
To Ruby’s hands the gift was passed.
She tore the wrapping open wide,
But, lifting up the  thing inside,
She frowned at it, and slowly said,
“It isn’t right. It isn’t red.
I wanted red, but this is white.
It really, truly, isn’t right.”

Her mother smiled and kissed her cheek,
And said perhaps she shouldn’t speak
So soon until she’d tried it on.
The hoods in red, all sold, were gone,
But this would keep her warm and dry.
“Now you be brave and don’t you cry.”
And though no tears did Ruby shed,
Her thoughts were cold, and dark, and red.

When Ruby wore the hood to school,
The notion it was far from cool
Boiled up within her tortured mind,
And after lessons she would find
A smaller child on which to take
Revenge for mother’s big mistake.
And this alone was cause for woe,
But Ruby’s wrath had far to go.

The trees and gardens on her street
Were always kept so trim and neat
That any point at which you stood
Revealed a pleasant neighbourhood.
Until, one Sunday, morning came,
And with it views not quite the same.
And all who saw grew faint and cold.
Or all but one, if truth be told.

The trees were burned to smoking stumps;
Each lawn was scarred with pits and lumps;
The picket fences, once so white,
Sprayed with graffiti overnight;
The cars had all their windows smashed,
And each and every tyre slashed;
While on each door, each house, each shed,
A word, in painted letters: ‘RED’.

If Ruby’s mother had her doubts
About her daughter’s whereabouts,
And worse, her twisted mental health,
She kept such notions to herself.
She really couldn’t quite be sure;
Her daughter seemed so prim, so pure.
The only link: the colour red,
But even this thought left her head.

For peace came back to Ruby’s street.
The little girl was more discrete.
She wore it still, that snow-white hood,
And while she did, she did no good,
But settled for much lesser crimes:
Put salt in teacher’s tea sometimes,
And wasps into the changing rooms,
Or filled the class with noxious fumes.

The school play: every child fell sick
From Ruby’s latest little trick.
With poison ivy in their pants,
They couldn’t act, they couldn’t dance.
The children wept, their mothers cried,
And Ruby’s black heart filled with pride,
For every child sent home to bed
Paid for the hood which wasn’t red.

---

Part 2 - Mother

Of course, the mother paid far more.
She’d made the purchase at the store.
She’d bought the hood, unwanted, white,
So little Ruby thought it right
To make her suffer for that choice,
For in her head a little voice
Convinced her that it would be fair
To drive her mother to despair.

The first step: ditch the boyfriend, Dave,
The man to whom her mother gave
Much love and trust and deep respect.
And Ruby’s goal, to see this wrecked,
Began with pushing spicy meats
In all the gaps between the seats
Of Dave’s beloved SUV,
And filling up the tank with pee.

But that just got him in a mood,
So Ruby organised a feud
Between her mother and the man,
In what was her most heinous plan.
With Internet and hacking skillz,
She ordered Dave some dodgy pills;
And people from a dating site
Began to ring him late at night.

And that was bad enough, but then
It turned out they were chubby men,
Who liked to dress in monkey suits,
With little skirts and painted boots.
When mother found Dave’s costume too,
There wasn’t much that he could do
To turn this sorry mess about.
He had to go - she kicked him out.

And in this tricky mental state,
Young Ruby could accelerate
The onslaught on her mother, which
Was why, without a single hitch,
The shower squirted chicken soup,
The ceilings dripped with slimy goop,
And coffee, mixed with purple ink,
Took Ruby’s mother to the brink.

The mix-up with the shower gel
And oven cleaner turned out well.
Her mother’s skin was clean alright,
But, sore and scarlet, giving fright
To all the friends she used to meet,
Who now ignored her in the street.
While sympathising, Ruby said,
“It is a splendid shade of red.”

When snails blocked up the toilet bowl,
And somehow there appeared a hole
In all the walls around the house,
Suggestions it could be a mouse
Were met with looks of deep despair,
And asking Ruby if she’d swear
That she was not the one to blame,
This only served to fan the flame.

From toenails in her lemon drink
To giant toads found in the sink,
Dead beetles on the pillow case,
The mother’s ever-aging face
Grew lined and grey and serious,
And, verging on delirious,
She spat a worm-filled piece of cake
And howled, “I really need a break!”

Considering which leg she meant,
And in no hurry to relent,
Young Ruby’s fury burned again,
And on a scale of one to ten
An under-stated seventeen
Was optimistic, not extreme.
Her fractured psyche burst apart
And turned to ash her tiny heart.

She hardly heard her mother say,
“You’ll go to Grandma’s house to stay.
I’ll visit in a little while,
But now I need a place where I’ll
Have total care and total rest.
The clinic is the very best.
So hurry, pack some things to wear.
I’ll call a cab to take you there.”

Arrangements, made in double time,
Meant into taxis both did climb.
Instructions, in a note for Gran,
Were carried by the taxi man.
And Ruby now was headed east,
Her rage and bitterness increased,
For mother drove the other way.
Revenge could wait, but she would pay.

---

Part 3 - The House

A thought occurred, a scheme, a plan,
And saying to the taxi man,
“To what address have I been sent?”
She reached and stretched and tipped and bent
To snatch the letter from his fist,
And take hold of the wheel and twist.
A smashing, crashing, splash of red.
And blood-stained, broken, dying. Dead.

She’d bruises, but no breakage, none
(She always kept her seatbelt on),
So tightened up the hated hood
And caught her breath outside and stood
Where just beyond the taxi door
The man’s ID lay on the floor.
‘Taxi Driver, Woodrow Cutter’.
Ruby sighed, “That’s one less nutter.”

But having killed the taxi man,
One tiny wrinkle in the plan:
The mangled debris of the car
Would not take Ruby very far.
And so she sat beside the wreck,
Until a driver stopped to check,
To give assistance, save the day.
She broke his neck and drove away.

But little girls have little legs,
And here a pressing question begs:
Just how did Ruby’s reach the floor?
And though a problem, Ruby swore
To be as tall as Woodrow was,
And this was possible because
His severed legs, strapped to her knees,
Could push the pedals down with ease.

The in-car navigation meant
She journeyed without incident,
Or would have if she hadn’t thought
It was her duty and she ought
To swerve into the local bum,
Which helped to break the tedium.
“Will work for food” his sign had said.
His last job: paint the gutters red.

At last the house came into view,
A place which Ruby hitherto
Had never stepped inside nor seen,
And by extension that would mean
She’d never even met her Gran.
And as the winding road began
To take her up a lonely hill,
Young Ruby felt a sudden chill.

It squatted on a barren crag,
And though imposing seemed to sag,
As if the weight of time and all
Its troubles pressed on every wall.
And on its twisted porch there sat
A blinking, watching, waiting cat.
Disturbed, it paced, with even stride,
And slowly, softly, stepped inside.

Detaching Woodrow’s grisly limbs
She caught sight of the crooked rims
Of tiny rounded spectacles,
And though a little sceptical
Of finding welcome in this place,
The glasses and the kindly face
Behind them led her to ignore
The garlic tied around the door.

With haste the blood on Ruby’s legs
Was wiped away and any dregs
Were covered with the spotless skirt
Within her bag. It didn’t hurt
To be as crafty as a fox,
So Ruby pulled on cleaner socks
And strained her lips to force a smile,
A skill not used for quite a while.

When finally the young girl stood,
With socks and skirt and little hood,
She looked a picture of delight,
And though her rage could still ignite,
She put aside her evil schemes,
And, just for once, the wild extremes.
A psycho killer? Who could tell?
Now at the door, she rang the bell.

---

Part 4 - Grandma

“I’m out!” an old voice squawked within,
“I don’t want shaving from my sin!
No wife insurance for the roof,
No gutter-things made weatherproof,
No bubble glazing, if you please,
No free-range bread or manky cheese!
I’ve got the plague and camel cough!
You can’t come in, so bugger off!”

Astonished, Ruby almost laughed.
This woman, senile, slow and daft,
Would never guess her purpose here
Was finding out where mother dear
Had gone to rest her tortured mind,
And Ruby felt almost inclined
To leave her Grandma trouble-free.
“But no,” she thought, “that isn’t me.”

She knocked this time, ignored the bell,
And now an ancient, acrid smell
Seeped slowly through the letterbox,
With hints of Tutankhamen’s socks,
So old the smell appeared to be,
And bending over she could see
Two eyes, one green, the other blue.
“It’s me, Grandmother. Is that you?”

At once the door flew open wide.
“My darling Robbie! Come inside!
How was the journey? Oh, so late!
It’s almost... ten past twenty-eight.
Now did you bring the circus tent?
Oh bogies, that’s not what I meant.”
She beckoned with a wrinkled hand,
And Ruby entered Grandma land.

Inside, when you were used to it,
The smell was like a tiny bit
Of all the things that ever grew,
Boiled up with sweat and served as stew.
From everywhere it seemed to ooze,
And Ruby felt her little shoes
Were sticking to the grimy floor.
Behind her, Grandma closed the door.

The shadows in the darkened hall
Meant she could hardly see at all.
Reluctantly she held the arm
Of Grandma, and with some alarm
She found it muscle-bound and strong.
Uncommon, yes, but hardly wrong.
Yet as she followed Grandma’s tread,
Her thoughts were filled with mounting dread.

They stepped into another room,
And in the nauseating gloom,
While Ruby waited with her bag,
Still trying not to breathe or gag,
The woman rummaged in a drawer,
Soon found what she was looking for,
And lit a match, which lit a lamp,
Which lit the room, and so... a ramp.

The gradient was steep at first,
But after that she saw the worst
Soon levelled off to some degree,
And through the shadows she could see
A path which led deep underground.
And far below, was that the sound
Of water running through a cave?
Now Ruby told herself, “Be brave.”

“Oh, don’t be frightened, Ronnie dear.
I know this seems a little queer,
But many, many years ago
They built this house, and don’t you know
They used the caves for hiding rum.
They smuggled it, and men would come
And store the barrels out of sight.
Or was it kippers? Yes, that’s right!”

All thoughts of mother fully gone,
The child, reluctant to go on,
Had nonetheless no other choice,
But whispered in a timid voice,
“I’m very sleepy. Where’s my room?”
But Gran was gone, into the gloom.
“Keep up, Rubella, follow me!
There’s liver-cake and jam for tea!”

So Ruby pulled her hood on tight,
No longer caring it was white,
And followed where her Grandma stepped,
While wishing that she could have slept
Back home inside her little bed;
Her sheets, her pillows, all in red.
It seemed forever to the child,
Till Grandma stopped, and turned, and smiled.

What Ruby hadn’t seen before
Were details, features. Little more
Than glimpses of her Grandma’s face
Were all the child could use to trace
A mental photograph of Gran,
But now the little girl began
To worry. She was trapped beneath.
And Grandma had gigantic teeth.

So long and white, they’d strip the meat
From anything they cared to eat,
And Ruby let this notion slip.
“Why Grandma, I’ll bet you could grip
A zebra in those teeth of yours.
They really are tremendous jaws.”
And Grandma grinned and simply said,
“Perhaps I’ll eat a child instead.”

Her eyes adjusting to the light,
The girl saw that her hunch was right:
Big eyes, big nose, enormous ears,
Were all confirming Ruby’s fears.
“You’re not my Grandma, not at all!
I need a phone, I need to call
The armed police! The infantry!
Eat something else! Just don’t eat me!”

And closer came the leering face,
Till Ruby’s heart began to race
So fast she thought her chest would pop.
But on it came and would not stop
Until her awful fate was sealed.
And Ruby gripped her hood and squealed.
A crooked hand reached through the night.
It touched the wall... and there was light.

---

Part 5 - Wolf

The glare was blinding, but her eyes
Could see the fangs and huge incis-
ors. Teeth, an inch from Ruby’s nose,
Drooled thick saliva down her clothes.
On tiny shoulders, mighty paws
Dug into skin with lethal claws.
Her soul grew cold, an empty space...
Its tongue began to lick her face.

“That’s naughty, Wolfie, put her down!
Great barking bunions, don’t you drown
Her! Silly thing! So sorry dear,
We don’t get many strangers here.
I’ve told him that he shouldn’t beg.
Oh, what’s he doing to your leg?”
The beast withdrew, and Ruby found
Not Gran, but an enormous hound.

Her eyes had tricked poor Ruby’s mind.
The house, the dark, had misaligned
Her senses to expect the worst.
And now she whispered, no, she cursed.
For mother was to blame for this,
And next time Ruby wouldn’t miss
The chance to take her pound of flesh.
Avenging thoughts returned afresh.

“Roberta, sweetie, here we are!
Feel free to raid the cookie jar.
But just one teensy little rule:
Don’t you-know-whatsy in the pool.”
No longer facing Grandma’s pet,
Young Ruby’s startled eyes were met
With wonders you might only see
In dazzling homes on MTV.

The balcony on which they stood
Gave Ruby such a view she could
See statues, paintings, marble floors,
And walls with gem-encrusted doors,
A swimming pool and water slide.
Said Gran, “I live down here and hide.
When people see the old house, they
Just take one look and run away.”

While Wolfie galloped down the stairs,
They took the elevator. “There’s
A thing your mother doesn’t know.
I won a fortune, years ago.
My numbers came up, yes all six,
But by that time your mother’s tricks
And schemes to have me put in care
Broke us apart, beyond repair.”

“This place is huge!” young Ruby drooled,
“And no-one knows - they’ve all been fooled!”
“Oh yes,” said Gran, “just you and me.
And not forgetting Mr C.”
She didn’t ask Gran who that was,
And this was probably because
Her brain had figured something out.
Excited, she began to shout.

“Oh Grandma! Grandma, pretty please!
I’ll beg and crawl on both my knees.
I’ll skip and dance and run and sing
If you will do one tiny thing.
Oh will you, Grandma? I’ll be good,
If only you’ll buy me a hood.
A hood like this one - see my head?
But not in white. It must be red.”

Her Grandma peered through wrinkled eyes,
And though she seemed to be surprised,
She thought a while, and then she said,
“We’ll buy a dozen hoods, all red!”
And Ruby danced, and Ruby skipped,
And Ruby’s evil thoughts were tipped
Into the pool for evermore.
She’d be a good girl now, she swore.

So, tired and happy, Ruby fell
Into a chair and all was well.
She’d had a busy day all told,
And Grandma delicately rolled
Her up in blankets, smiling still.
“I’m quite sure that my husband will
Adore you. But where can he be?
Go find him, Wolf, find Mr C!”

---

Part 6 - Red

When Ruby woke, she lay in bed,
With candles all around her head.
Her Grandma sat nearby and sighed,
And whispered, with no hint of pride,
Just bitterness, and never smiled:
“My granddaughter, my lovely child.
You’re what I thought I’d not survive
To see, but yes, I’m still alive.”

“And Mr C, he’d like you, yes.
We’d both adore the way you dress.
The little skirt, the little hood,
The little shoes... the little blood.
The little blood, yes that was weird,
But Wolfie sniffed it, it was smeared
Around your shoes. He knows his scents.
My, what a problem that presents.”

When Ruby tried to sit upright,
She couldn’t move, the sheets too tight.
“I thought that something must be wrong.
He’s never taken very long
To park the car and come inside,
Though now and then he’d stay, and I’d
Find him cleaning. Can’t stand clutter.
Never could, not Woodrow Cutter.”

“I didn’t do it! Grandma, please!”
But Gran said, “Cut off at the knees.
An old man’s legs, and you did that.
I found a bit of him the cat
Had brought inside. No, not his fault.
That’s instinct, see? But humans halt
A lot of things they think are bad.
But you, oh, look what fun you’ve had.”

“Please Grandma, no! Please, no! I beg!”
But Gran picked up a severed leg.
“We used to dance. Not very well.
Is this leg left or right? Can’t tell.
For dancing that’s a problem too.
Don’t think that matters now, do you?”
She hurled it down upon the bed.
“You met him once, and now he’s dead.”

“No, no! We crashed! Let me explain!”
And Grandma said, “There was no pain.
It’s on the news, they’re sure of it,
Not like the homeless man you hit.
They say he’ll live but never walk.
And if the other one could talk -
You know, the one whose neck you broke -
He’d say that dying is no joke.”

She went on, “Wolfie found the leg.
That really took me down a peg.
He looked so pleased. He’s always shown
Me things he finds. Just like a bone,
But with a bit more meat and skin.
My faithful Wolfie brought it in.
But I don’t think my mind can stretch
Enough to play with him at fetch.”

Now sobbing, Ruby couldn’t speak.
Her struggles, feeble, futile, weak,
Could not release her from the bed,
And now the girl began to dread
What Grandma planned to do with her.
“You’re quite the little saboteur,”
Said Grandma, “so your mother wrote.
“She told me what you’d done - the note.”

“She knows I’m here! She’ll call the cops!”
“I told you, Mum, she never stops,”
A voice said in the darkened room,
And gliding forward from the gloom
Came Ruby’s mother, cold and grim.
“My father, child. You murdered him.
Though never close, he was my Dad.
And you, well you’ve been very bad.”

“She lied to you! She’s really rich!”
“And you’re a vicious scheming bitch,”
Her mother cried, and Gran agreed.
“A very naughty girl indeed.
And all this for a little hood.
Perhaps you’re just misunderstood,
But understand, girl, this is why
It’s time to pay. It’s time to die.”

And now from Ruby not a sound,
For Grandma quickly, tightly bound
Across her mouth a piece of rag,
A makeshift but effective gag.
And Ruby, helpless on the bed,
Her eyeballs bulging from her head,
Heard Grandma, as she tied the knot,
Say, “Ruby, what big eyes you’ve got.”

Her mother murmured, “Here’s the hood.”
She held it up, and something could
Be seen inside it, something brown,
For something heavy weighed it down.
“Mmm, peppered steak,” her Grandma said,
And tied the hood to Ruby’s head.
“It’s Wolfie’s choicest tasty treat.
He likes the blood. He loves the meat.”

Outside, the scrape of mighty paws,
Excited scratching, lethal claws.
No nightmare this, no childish dream.
In Ruby’s lungs a silent scream,
As chilling as a midnight fog.
She saw the door. She saw the dog.
She saw two women take their leave.
And knew there would be no reprieve.

She’d never asked for very much,
And Ruby really wasn’t such
A naughty girl before she said
She hated white and must have red.
But vengeance now was duly served,
And Ruby got what she deserved.
Discarded lay the little hood,
Now ruby red, with Ruby’s blood.

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

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

Angelica

Angelica
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!”