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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