Come here child, let me tell you a story.
A wanderer so witty went to a Land so scary,
A Land so scary made his stay so gory,
And so was provoked the wanderer’s poetry.
Find a seat, you will like the story.
The name of the Land, my dear, was Derry.
Too many witches, too many bodies to bury.
Hunger spiced their food, no such thing as curry.
Ghosts punctured hymens, none in town a cherry.
Find a seat, my dear, really scary was Derry.
The king of the Land said his daughter will marry
Anyone who can indeed restore the poor Land’s glory.
Harry Potter is a fable, the wanderer was not Harry.
The princess didn’t have to be bait, the wanderer felt so sorry.
What a father will give her daughter to any mongrel to marry?
The wanderer boiled at last into his little armoury,
Grabbed odds and ends, practiced his archery.
Enough of witchcraft! Enough of sorcery!
Enough of dark arts! Enough of wizardry!
In fact, he emptied in fury the entire armoury.
He gushed out of his house on a night so starry,
Filled with gallant courage and courageous gallantry,
Towards the woods he marched, into the coven’s territory.
But they were already waiting for him to cross the boundary,
Longing for his blood, how the night was starry!
He hardly emerged before they attempted the butchery.
Who would have known he knew how well to parry?
The first witch he grabbed did not survive his battery.
But they soon seized him and made his vision blurry.
Perhaps at last, he fell victim of their butchery.
“Stupid young fool, what brought you to Derry?”
Asked a blurry figure, holding some cutlery.
“I came to kill you, poor witchy deary.
“Where a child of light is, gone must be quandary.
“Get ready to die”, he shrieked, “bloody witches of Derry.”
Laughter filled the night like beer would fill a brewery.
“Does he even know our leader, Van Helsing of Derry?”
“He cannot even stand up, yet bathes himself in flattery.”
“Can someone pull him up, relieve him of his weaponry?”
And he felt so dizzy like he had drunk a whole brewery.
What happened after then drained him of his bravery.
After all his worries and burnt calory,
The leader of the coven plaguing poor Derry,
Was nobody but the Princess herself in all her glory,
Sit back my child, hear a tale of bravery.
The wanderer was dumbfounded, writhing in quivery.
His jaws hung open, he couldn’t be more weary.
Overflow of blood began to expand his artery,
Who would have imagined the princess in the evil artistry?
He spasmed, swallowed hard, grunted in quivery.
There was a man who was very-very hairy,
And another who did not at all look cheery,
Both looked gaunt with ugly reeking dentistry.
They grabbed, gagged, beat and left on him a grave injury.
Then the princess called them off, barking at the one hairy.
Withdrew they did from the bloody scenery.
The wanderer was declared an unworthy adversary.
“Unshackle him, I’m quite impressed by his bold foolery,”
Said the princess. “We shall set this one free.
“He will dissuade other fools with account of this scenery.”
“But he dropped one of us, how can he be free?”
“I say we eat him and drop his bones in the cemetery.”
“He has seen your face and must make it to a mortuary,”
Clamoured the coven, now getting bitter and angry.
The princess pushed a bit more, “let the wanderer be free!”
The wanderer could not speak, he was in misery.
But he saw the princess persuading her coven to agree
With her plan to instead of killing hex into him a nasty dysentery,
The kind to which no treatment existed in Derry.
“What baboonery!” The wanderer groaned in his misery.
“May I know your name?” The wanderer said Henry.
“I’d love to free you, for you’re not of Derry citizenry.
“But we cannot release someone who to our coven is Abolitionary.
“You shouldn’t have dreamt for yourself a princess to marry.
“Now our two butlers will cook you, poor handsome Henry.”
Chill swept through the wanderer, where was Lord’s sanctuary?
His destiny was not to die but to create a great history;
A history not mundane but very extraordinary,
He started thinking hard, cannot be meat in their cookery!
He looked at the sky, God, where is your sanctuary?
Idolatry, witchery and wizardry are illusory
To an ignorant, yes, but in truth, Nature’s chemistry,
Guided by rules even in their ruthlessness and murderous spree.
What does this portend, Nature’s poetry?
Yes, he got it, Nature’s poetry, real and not illusory!
“Wait, legendary witches of this country!
“Hear me out, hold your customary sanguinary!
“I am not a chunk of meat to enjoy at your eatery.
“I am Nature’s voice and I’m challenging you to a battle simply literary.
“Riddles and answers, I bet they’re not alien to your country.”
His injury was aching but he pitched well his oratory.
The coven was salivating but he steered well his sophistry.
And as he stood they frowned, hoping he was delusionary.
He was not, he was rather revolutionary.
Reminding them their code and binding them with age-tailored oratory.
The princess winced, in expression somewhat appreciatory,
Her chest rising and falling anxiously beneath her corsetry.
She was worried, answering riddles doesn’t entertain being contradictory.
If Henry misses one answer, he’s dead, that was the theory.
She pitied that he would not get any answer right, she dumped being appreciatory.
***to be continued***
Written by: Lord eBay