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.