The Greenish Pond
"Beware
of the Greenish Pond"
My
mother's voice would call.
"It's
banks are steep, its pebbles slick,
I
fear lest you should fall,
To
be drowned within its greenish depth
Where
Morgawrmorph doth dwell,
Whose
dreadful eye is bloodshot,
Whose
doorway leads to…" Well,
I
won't say. 'Tis a children's poem
But
she would tell me, "Heck!"
And
scare my wits to shivering, brrr!
Like
icicles down my neck.
So
I set forth one dreadful day
With
a spyglass and a snack
To
see with mine own eyes this freak
This
Morgawrmorph-the-black.
Then
I sneaked up on tippy toes,
As
careful as a cat,
Not
knowing that my brother saw,
And
followed me—the brat!
As
I gazed at that lymphatic depth,
Distempered
and diseased,
The
little brat behind me crept
And
then the booger sneezed.
Like
a swan I flew! A bird,
Spread-eagled,
spiraling, splay.
Only
to land with a gawky spat,
Making
greasy greenish spray.
I
sunk within the grotesque depth,
Of
algae-ridden ooze,
While
my bratish brother stared,
Like
some comic, bug-eyed goose.
His
gaping mouth, his waggling tongue,
Held
back a silent scream,
As
horror played before his eyes,
This
nightmare of a dream
From
that alluvia there arose,
A
monster from the dregs,
With
green algae skin, and seaweed hair,
That
swirled down past its legs.
A
single eye adorned its head,
Much
like a lily pad,
The
monster gagged a guttural sound,
Like
it was very, very mad.
My
brother found his wits and fled,
With
the screech of a wild banshee,
Not
knowing the Morgawrmorph he saw,
Was
his own dear sister… ME!
I
went home by a different route,
One
might say, quite sneak-i-fied,
I
slipped upstairs and took a shower,
While
my brother, terrified,
Told
his tale of Morgawrmorph,
And
of his sister's doom,
But
all he got was a scathing scold,
And
an exile to his room.
For
is sister, innocent and sweet,
Had
been a little champ,
Cleaned
her room, washed her clothes, and hair,
He
could see, for it was still damp.
The
greenish pond is a quiet place,
Where
lovely marsh flowers grow,
And
the sweet swamp sparrow tweets his tune,
It's
a place where I often go.
I
no longer believe in Morgawrmorph,
It's
a stupid, made-up tale.
Though
I stay away from the slippery rocks,
And
keep to the well-trod trail,
Lest
I trip and fall with a sputtering splash,
And
be covered with ooze and watery frond,
Like
the day my brother followed me down,
To
the banks of the greenish pond.
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