Acrid, Bitter Poet Ghoul
(aka. Goodbye Wordsworth!)
The ghoul is here, the rumors say,
an artist shot with lead;
badly buried in a haste
and risen from the dead.
No-one knows, sir, you must see,
why's the man not gone;
they think the reason might just be
a poem not quite done.
In his mouth, the neighbor tells,
a nasty set of teeth;
a sweetish tooth for human cells
and brains for favourite treat.
In his fridge, the people say,
a jar of brains made cream;
on his desk in "to do" tray
the poem still midstream.
The daffodils, still small and frail,
in mr. Wordsworth's yard
were trampled by the lead-white ghoul
wand'ring like a cloud.
"What's it like", the press-man asks,
"to be a complete sod?
Why did you do violence
to Will's most famous lot?"
"I'm not nasty, do you hear,
I'm just a man gone mad,
mad with words that just aren't here
when I need them bad."
"In that case", the press-man says,
"we must get you freed!
Our readers must have many ways
to help you in your need!"
Come the next week, legends claim,
someone comes to aid;
Inventing a valid rhyme -
"Your ghoul can now be laid!"
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