Thursday, September 05, 2013

The Mulch-wump.

(After R. Chetwynd-Hayes)

In ancient days they said that Basilisks were bred, from eggs laid by a cock,
warmed in the depths of midden-heaps

It was a half-remembered story of the risks they led, who first received the shock
squirmed in the meths of hidden-deeps.

For what fear lies in a serpent's eyes that can turn a chap to stone,
A handsome statue's not a fate to chill you to the bone.

It's half a bob, to the scary glob, that can swallow half a horse,
The mulch-wump's the beast that'll leave the least, twix the first and the last course.

So it you hear the slopping draw near, the oozing and the squelch,
It won't give you a chess match chance, it makes no bets to welch,

It's not erudite, or a vampire bright, it doesn't dress when it slurps,
It just engulfs, devours, takes what is ours, and maybe after, burps.

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