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19-10-2005, 02:43 PM (This post was last modified: 19-10-2005 02:53 PM by Northern angel.)
Post: #1


Out of the sea she rises up,
every night to me,
and her green eyes gleam
and her pearl hair streams
as she beckons me over the sea.

'Over the side of your ship,' she smiles
'come to my rock, come ride!'
I'm plunged in a trice
into fire and ice,
and my fears float away with the tide.

'Follow me down, my love,' she moans
in music thrilling and low.
She smooths my hand
on cool soft sand
and I feel my weariness go.

'What about us?' my troubles cry out
'Away! Come back to your crew!
How can we steer
when tall waves rear -
tell us what we must do!'

'Torment another mind,' I say.
'Anchor in another head.
My dreams could be true
to what I should do
when I sleep in ocean's bed.'

'Out there in the dark, wild winds roar
but I'll dream, until light
frees this cave
where seaweeds wave
the spell of the Queen of the Night.'

' Come over the sea,' tonight she'll sing,
'raft on your pillow to me,'
and her green eyes will gleam
and her hair will stream
as she conjures me into her sea. :angel_not


The Golden Leg.

Lady Anne leaps to the lilting beat
of the fiddlers at her Ball,
dances carefree evenings away
in her baronial Hall.

One night she trips on the curving stairs -
'Oh! Oh!' gasp her startled guests.
For the love of his wife Sir John insists
that a surgeon must do his best.

But he shakes his head and whispers to John
that he'll have to cut off her leg.
'Don't worry, my darling!' her husband cries.
'A new one you'll wear instead!'

Now her foot gleams under her crimson gown
at the Christmastide Hunt Ball.
'My treasure, watch out on those treacherous stairs!'
her loving husband calls.

But her slipper catches her crimson hem
and she falls fifty steps to the floor.
Sir John shrieks as he cradles her.
'Can I comfort you no more?'

'The surgeon cannot mend, oh no,
your beautiful broken head.
I'll order the finest coffin
to give you a silken bed.'

When she lies in state her stricken Lord
for his tears cannot nail down the top.
'Come Butler! Do this dreadful deed
for my weeping will not stop!'

The butler stares at her crimson gown
at the golden leg where it gleams,
and thinks to himself that where she's going
that's the very last thing she'll need.

He fingers his greed for the shining leg,
he peeps through the windows and door,
then one swift tug is all it takes
and his future is safely stored.

The lid is nailed, the church is packed,
the sexton spades in the ground.
But when the moon sails from under her veils
a hollow wailing sound

floats over the silvered grave-stoned yard
floats to the parson's ears,
and he's off at dawn to pester Sir John
and tell what the villagers hear.

Distraught, Sir John promises him
that his butler shall crouch by her bed.
'oh master - don't ask me - I'm feared to go!'
'tonight, you'll keep your vigil,' John said.

He's off to the hallowed church yard,
he's off as slow as dare.
He's into the yew tree shadows,
trying to pretend he's not there.

'Whoo - whoo - come closer, come down
feel where I sleep, my dear,'
The butler moonlights behind the gate -
his bones are jellied with fear.

He sleepwalks on like a spectre pale
in a cloak of fear.
He whispers of long, long - ago,
'Nearer, nearer, come near,'

'Whoo - whoo - I must lie in peace -
I'm undead in restless grief,
Whoo! Whooo! Give me back at once
my golden leg you thief,'

Groaning, he kneels beside her mound
and her hands strech up like claws.
Moaning, his head bends close to the ground
and her arms reach our like jaws,
but she gleefully pulls his leg
like I might be pulling yours......... :devil:

(last one just for fun pure devilment, go on have a go be a mischievous child)

Betcha don't know our Head's got a pet
who lives in his cupboard with the television set.
he lurks very quietly down there,
till a naughty child sits in The Naughty chair

under Mr Rackem's beady eye.
Then the cupboard door creaks and there's a cry
from a lumbering beast with its nose on fire,
its eyes like lolllipops, teeth like wire.

who clambers out with slashing claws
that can shatter desks and classroom walls.
His breath is a cloud of poisonous fumes -
one whiff of 'em and that's you doomed.

They say he only sleeps at night;
when school is quiet he's well out of sight,
but the minute a rumpus starts in a room
or a corridor he twitches in his unlocked tomb.

Then Mr Rackem smiles a tremeondous grin,
smelling the trouble you'll soon be in.
So keep well clear of his suspicious glance
or you'll be a goner - you won't stand a chance.

Grown ups don't see our teacher's pet,
not parents nor OFSTED nor cleaners, yet
I know he's there ' cos I've heard the cries
of little kids whose brains he fries.

Sometimes they shuffles out, sometimes they stays
all night till they promises to mend their ways.
Next morning Mr Rackem writes a polite letter
as if nothing happened, but I know better.

Yeh, I know what he's up to, I know full well
that raptor must be muffled, but who can I tell?
They're all in it together, though pretending to care
as they sip their coffee in their comfortable chairs.

So here's a plea for help, I hope it'll do a lot, I'll
raise your awareness, so I'll pop it in a bottle.
If you're reading this, just in case his next is me -
Please, padlock that cupboard and throw away the key.

Yeh, throw away - throw away the key -
or - better still - keep it - and give it to me. :wink2:

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