ormery
in
owlpellets
IT'S POETRY TIME
For those of you as aren't aware, occasionally I write silly rhyming poetry for my own simple-minded amusement ...
What Became of Thomas the Pig
The forest was bleak, the trees spindly and dead;
Here and there there was one whose trunk looked like a head
With bulbous bark eyes and a crown made of twigs -
But past them we went, seeking our poor lost pig.
"Thomas!" we cried, and "Old Tom!" we implored,
But the forest was silent. Our cries went ignored.
Still, me and my sister had faith and pressed on,
But hours went by and still no sign of Tom.
We shouted "Fat Thomas!" but he wasn't there,
And we'd a worrying feeling the trees were aware
That two children were trespassing deep in their woods.
We trod carefully, fearing we'd come to no good.
But wait! In the shadows! That round, piggish hunch!
Could it be, after all, Tom was not some wolf's lunch?
Was our trek a success? Had we found our dear pig?
Yes! Those were his ears, just a little too big,
And his tail, slightly curly, his trotters so sweet,
His snuffly snout and his bristles so neat -
But something was odd in the gleam of his eyes,
And something amiss about dear old Tom's size;
And when he looked our way and uttered a squeal,
I found myself wishing he'd been a wolf's meal -
For that squeal made the hair all stand up on our backs
And me and my sister we stopped in our tracks.
Gone was Old Tom, once so sweet and kind,
With his meek, gentle manner and ample behind;
Old Tom, who'd been raised as a pet, not for dinner,
Now looked at us both with the eyes of a killer.
As he stepped towards us, we took a step back.
That pig looked for certain about to attack.
I turned to my sister and shouted, "Beth, run!"
- She didn't need telling, she'd already begun.
Thomas charged forward, his trotters aglint,
And I started running, broke into a sprint -
But it looked to be Beth that the pig wanted dead,
'Cause when he passed me he just charged on ahead,
And I tried to run faster, catch up, slow him down,
But suddenly found myself flat on the ground;
I'd tripped, I now realised with utmost despair,
On a root that before I'd have sworn wasn't there,
And, when I tried to get up and give chase,
It curled round my ankle to hold me in place.
I shouted, I yelled, I tried to resist,
But the forest was pulling me down by the wrists,
My face was held down, couldn't breathe, couldn't see,
And I hoped against hope that my sister was free -
But I could still hear - hear the yells and the grunts,
The ripping, the tearing; the end of the hunt.
I wanted to retch, I wanted to scream,
I wanted to wake up and find it a dream,
But the leafmulch pressed into my mouth and my eyes
And as much as I wished it, as much as I tried,
This wasn't some dream, I was fully awake,
I couldn't get up and I couldn't escape.
As the ground sucked me down into damp, mulchy earth,
I inwardly cried and I silently cursed;
I cried for my sister, I cried for poor Tom,
I cursed at the forest - and then .. I was gone.
What Became of Thomas the Pig
The forest was bleak, the trees spindly and dead;
Here and there there was one whose trunk looked like a head
With bulbous bark eyes and a crown made of twigs -
But past them we went, seeking our poor lost pig.
"Thomas!" we cried, and "Old Tom!" we implored,
But the forest was silent. Our cries went ignored.
Still, me and my sister had faith and pressed on,
But hours went by and still no sign of Tom.
We shouted "Fat Thomas!" but he wasn't there,
And we'd a worrying feeling the trees were aware
That two children were trespassing deep in their woods.
We trod carefully, fearing we'd come to no good.
But wait! In the shadows! That round, piggish hunch!
Could it be, after all, Tom was not some wolf's lunch?
Was our trek a success? Had we found our dear pig?
Yes! Those were his ears, just a little too big,
And his tail, slightly curly, his trotters so sweet,
His snuffly snout and his bristles so neat -
But something was odd in the gleam of his eyes,
And something amiss about dear old Tom's size;
And when he looked our way and uttered a squeal,
I found myself wishing he'd been a wolf's meal -
For that squeal made the hair all stand up on our backs
And me and my sister we stopped in our tracks.
Gone was Old Tom, once so sweet and kind,
With his meek, gentle manner and ample behind;
Old Tom, who'd been raised as a pet, not for dinner,
Now looked at us both with the eyes of a killer.
As he stepped towards us, we took a step back.
That pig looked for certain about to attack.
I turned to my sister and shouted, "Beth, run!"
- She didn't need telling, she'd already begun.
Thomas charged forward, his trotters aglint,
And I started running, broke into a sprint -
But it looked to be Beth that the pig wanted dead,
'Cause when he passed me he just charged on ahead,
And I tried to run faster, catch up, slow him down,
But suddenly found myself flat on the ground;
I'd tripped, I now realised with utmost despair,
On a root that before I'd have sworn wasn't there,
And, when I tried to get up and give chase,
It curled round my ankle to hold me in place.
I shouted, I yelled, I tried to resist,
But the forest was pulling me down by the wrists,
My face was held down, couldn't breathe, couldn't see,
And I hoped against hope that my sister was free -
But I could still hear - hear the yells and the grunts,
The ripping, the tearing; the end of the hunt.
I wanted to retch, I wanted to scream,
I wanted to wake up and find it a dream,
But the leafmulch pressed into my mouth and my eyes
And as much as I wished it, as much as I tried,
This wasn't some dream, I was fully awake,
I couldn't get up and I couldn't escape.
As the ground sucked me down into damp, mulchy earth,
I inwardly cried and I silently cursed;
I cried for my sister, I cried for poor Tom,
I cursed at the forest - and then .. I was gone.