The Goblin King
Prologue
Greta met a goblin in the cold, dark night.
Greta met a goblin and got quite a fright.
He crept to the hedgerow, his eyes aglow.
He grinned a grim grin. He crouched down low.
No one heard a sound. No one was around
when Greta met a goblin.
Part I
In a village far below
cold mountains black where goblins grow,
ring! Ding! A changeling sings, blows low.
Each eerie note trickles slick as silver from his throat.
Ring! Ding! A changeling sings.
Ring! for the King, his father mild.
Ding! For the Queen, his mother wild;
the fair Fairy Queen.
On the village green the two once met.
Each one loves the other yet,
but love is found an offensive, reprehensive thing
between a Fairy Queen and Human King.
Ring! Ding! A changeling sings.
His fairy mother, though fierce and wild,
could not for love or luck protect a changling child.
So left him for his father in the wood, all alone.
Throughout the wood sorrowful tones,
ring! Ding! A changeling sings.
So, dripping low, the echoes flow
throughout the village far below.
It is the 9th year of the Fairy Wars.
Goblins peep in fairy windows. They creep in fairy doors.
They spy with keen eyes for the human king.
Look! A goblin goes hobbling down the lane.
He’s feeling quite slighted and unrestrained
over leaving a meeting with the Human King
unfulfilled! Unrewarded! Unrecognized!
He has eyes full of harm. He has a basket on his arm.
It’s just the right size for the changeling who cries.
Ring! Ding! The basket swings.
The goblin, quite wicked, slips through the thicket.
(The thicket filled still with a ghostly glow of a changeling!)
The goblin creeps, stoops low. Ring! Ding! A changeling sings.
So, ring! Ding! Rides the King,
fast after the wail, fast falling pale;
for every baby by goblins snatched
is by goblins hatched
into a goggle-eyed goblin, green and pale
with a scaley tail!
The king's very afraid for a changeling re-made
would hatch full grown with a mind of his own
to conquer the land. (Which is just what was planned.)
Ring! Ding! A changeling sings.
All too soon, the King discovers that he cannot recover
child or goblin. He sends word to the mother.
The fairy Fairy Queen.
She dies of sorrow with a scream on the village green.
So, ring! Ding! Dies father king.
He swings upon a branch tangled and low,
at the end of a rope all a goblin glow.
He swings. Ring! Ding!
Part II
Back in the mountains cold and black, the changeling is hatched.
He calls in dissonant chords full of mournful rings
as ding! In a ring the goblins sing, “Ring! Ding! The Goblin King!”
He retains every scary part of fairy.
He keeps each unkind way of mankind.
His eyes, cold and silver, never close.
He has skin like the moon and a long, straight nose.
He has fire and spiders inside of his hands.
They help him to weave unspeakable plans.
His voice is a fugue full of sorrowful notes.
They float in dim rings. Ding! The Goblin King.
The goggle-eyed goblins gather 'round.
They scuffle and scrape without making a sound.
They drape him in glimmering, shimmering mail
made of dragon's scales and fairies' tails.
Ring! Ding! The Goblin King.
He takes delight in fright and pain,
so to institute his quite shocking reign,
throughout the village far below,
ring! Ding! The King does go.
He rides a toad with great, horned wings.
Ring! Ding! The Goblin King.
The toad's wings flap. It’s sharp tongue laps
every infant in town from it's warm, safe nap.
The snatched are then hatched into green and pale
goggle-eyed goblins with scaly tails.
Everything goes according to plan.
Ring! Ding! The King conquers the land.
He rules with a dark and fearsome hand.
Ring! Ding! The Goblin King.
Part III
Somehow, the kingdom, despite it's great size
finds the King dissatisfied.
He stares and declares, "I must have a bride!
Take a net, quick, and get Greta for my side!
She like a star follows cool and slow
my frightful might from the village below.
She'll be found in the place the ghostly glow
of a changeling fills still." Slow go
the tread of Greta far below.
Greta by a goblin is quickly met,
caught up in his net and set before the King.
Her reaction to his attraction is a crass, "Whatever!
You think you're clever?"
Before the king can form a reply
she snatches his eyes.
She laughs as she juggles the small, shiny things.
Then she cries out as a flower springs from each socket.
Still mad, she plucks them for her pocket.
With a ding they ring, like a changeling sings.
Ring! Ding! The Goblin King.
The sound makes Greta feel a bit sad.
It’s so sweet, she thinks, “Perhaps he’s not all bad.”
So, over the petals, a tiny tear springs.
It drops down with a ding like a changeling sings.
Soon fast and faster she feels her tears flow.
ever larger she watches them grow
till one tear’s as tall as the mountains cold and black.
It falls over the land with a smash! Smack! Crack!
As it splatters it shatters like a great glass plate.
The tear of every goblin makes
a half-human, half-fairy lady or lord.
So ending the Human-Fairy War.
Changelings are now the main things around.
Then a sound - a note floats soft and slow
throughout the village far below.
Ring! Ding! A Changeling King sings!
He's retained every very nice part of fairy.
Now has only kind ways of mankind.
His eyes are still silver, but warm and they close.
He has skin like the moon and a long, straight nose.
He has fire and spiders inside of his hands.
They help him to weave unbelievable plans.
Soft and kind notes float to his throat from the back of his mind.
Low they echo, they fall slow
throughout the village far below.
Ring! Ding! A Changeling sings.
Ring! A king like his father, mild.
Ding! A queen like his mother, wild.
On the village green the two often are seen
where his mother and father met.
The Wishing Flute
Part I
Once upon a time in Illiodd,
(where thick is the air and damp is the sod),
a giant king was crowned.
He didn’t do much but stomp around
and was known to grind bones,
known to enjoy stew of small girl and boy.
His castle is in the clouds, over there,
at the foot of the Mountains of Despair.
Just past the Foothills of Forgetting,
where Banshee roam and all’s unsettling.
In the black castle of the giant king
it’s always night and no birds sing.
Surrounded by woods outside of time,
(wicked creatures wander through those pines),
the castle rises in the air.
Many children get lost in there
then wind up on the Giant’s bill of fare
The black castle sits where chill wind moans in fits,
where goblins creep and everyone weeps.
There is no getting out without letting
yourself get lost in Foothills of Forgetting.
Once a little boy named John
egged his parents on and on
and drove them half out of their wits
with his ferocious, childish fits.
He never would do what they said
and made them feel they’d lost their heads.
Whenever they tried to reprimand.
His behavior was really out of hand.
Of one thing than warned him more than all else
more even than of goblins, trolls or elves,
“Never go into the wood”, they said.
“Never, ever! Be very afraid!”
John didn’t listen. John didn’t mind.
He wanted to see what he would find
if he went just a little, tiny way in.
He was not seen again.
Part II
John soon met giants who prepared to bring
the boy to the black castle of their king
where it’s ever night and no birds sing.
John cried, “NO! I don’t want to go!
Don’t grind my bones! I want to go home!”
They said, “You’ll come to know
that refusing to be pliant ‘neath the grim whims of giants
invites a wealth of hazards to the health!”
In a manner most rude, John was quickly subdued.
John stayed for weeks. He stayed for days.
He stayed, and stayed and stayed and stayed.
“They’re fattening me up”, he thought to himself.
“They’ll eat me by Christmas!” With great care and stealth
he plotted and planned to get back home.
He plotted and planned and feared for his bones,
but there was no getting past those Foothills of Forgetting.
Then one night John overheard
the King and Queen exchange words:
“It would be tragic if the boy discovered magic”.
You see, King Giant, without dispute
had something magic, a luminous flute.
When slipped to his lip with a blow like a sigh – he’d fly
so high he’d come face to face with the moon in the sky.
The flute, (which usually played sweetly shimmering tunes),
was magic because it was made all of moon.
It would be a key tool should John wax seditious
because the moon grants wishes.
I’m sure you know how star wishes go,
your wish only comes true if no one knows.
Well, the same goes for a boon from the moon
but you must first charm her with a tune
and furthermore, you must be sure
of exactly what you’re wishing for.
What’s more –
to get a wish from the moon you must even the score
by giving her something she wishes for.
At the time, John didn’t know these rules
but began to understand that giants are fools
who often underestimate.
So their dinner sometimes escapes their plate…
Like most fruit forbidden, the flute was kept hidden,
(most often in the billow of Queen Giant’s pillow);
but King giant occasionally couldn’t resist
playing a tune and making a wish.
He kept his wishes quiet.
He said “No!” if John asked to try it,
and repeatedly said, (of flute to boy), “It’s not a toy!”
Part III
Christmas night, King Giant made an oversight,
(as giants sometimes do
when full of brew and dubious stew),
he dozed off with the flute beside his shoe.
John whispered, “With a wish I’ll be saved!
I must be very, very brave.”
He never knew how close to stew he was,
suffice to say he’d no time to pause,
side dishes were patiently sitting in sauce
the night John took flight.
As Queen Giant slow heated the pot,
King Giant’s flute became the flute John got.
John learned to play that very day,
then the magic waxed tragic.
Part IV
Feeling proficient and ready for wishes
he tramped right down to the center of town,
then wished and piped so loud,
he drew a large crowd,
a crowd of giants passing by.
They were suspicious of flutes, boys and wishes.
They ranted and chanted with rage, “When we were your age!”
They said they wanted to eat and that he looked sweet,
(and they didn’t mean nice, they meant well spiced.)
He wished to go home as hard as he could.
He promised the moon he would always be good
She only gleamed and winked her beams.
John cursed the coldly withholding sky.
He screamed and cried, “I want to fly!
I want my wish you stupid Moon”
The passers by declared him a loon.
John stomped his boots and on the flute
piped a scream dreamed to shatter the bold cold sky.
He blew and cried, “Why can’t I fly, why?
I’ll never get home oh my, my, my!
Without magic there’s no getting
past the Foothills of Forgetting!”
You’d think the passers by would have loved it,
all that pain going public.
No, they disapproved.
They were not amused.
They knocked boy and moon tune flat.
After that?
They dismantled the flute, grabbed him by his boots
and insisted they’d roast him like Christmas goose.
John saw no escape. He’d be served up with grapes.
“The moon has to be magic”, he thought aloud.
“I know you’re magic”, he screamed over the crowd.
They said, “Quit your din!” and began closing in
“Please moon”, he said, “I don’t want to be dead.
I want to go home to my room and my bed.
I’ll never wander in woods again.
I’ll be your very, very best friend.”
Hoping the moon would behave as planned,
John raised one quite small, flute less hand
and his voice, like a lasso, swirled up through the sky.
Too quickly to wonder or question why, John started to fly.
And stars shot down like hail, sharp as nails
into the eyes of giants passing by.
Soon – John was face to face with the moon.
Part V
She said, “Wishes turn stings when made public things.
There’s no going home I’m afraid.
But -- a piper waylaid nonetheless must be paid,
I can grant a wish you haven’t made.
And speaking of payment, there’s a fee,
a cost for getting a wish from me.
I’ll give you this choice – a wish for your voice.
Such beautiful tones! I want them for my own.”
“I can’t go home?” John cried in dismay.
He was never sorrier for running away
than at that moment – never indeed.
He could think of nothing else he might need
but his room and very own bed.
The moon just shook her head.
“But,” he said, “I need my voice.
Can’t you give me another choice?”
The moon remained quiet.
John decided he’d try it.
“I wish for the flute” he said with a smile,
after thinking a long, long while.
“I bet I could even wish – well, I won’t say,
but if the flute’s mine, I’ll have a wish every day.
What better substitute
for a voice than a flute?”
Sometimes he flies right over there,
far over the Mountains of Despair.
He pipes into the chill winds wail.
Sometimes, when there’s a westerly gale,
his tunes find a way of getting
past the Foothills of Forgetting.
What happens then?
That’s another tale, this one’s at it’s end.
But you’re quite right in the night
if you fear you hear a sonorous ominous tune.
It's John slipping his lip to his flute all of moon.
Rebecca of the Wood
Part I
Once upon a time in Illiodd,
(where thick is the air and damp is the sod),
Rebecca of the Wood
refused perfectly good
black pea pie.
Her mother and father
declared her a bother;
they turned up turnip eyes
and warned her of the wood.
It did no good.
Rebecca said she’d rather run away
into the woods that very day
than ever, ever eat another
yucky pie made by her mother.
Past mother ever dishing black pea pie,
past father’s never watchful eye,
Rebecca crept through the hedge
to the edge of the wood.
Rebecca assumed she’d be ok.
The opposite was the case.
Whoever enters the wood forgets
all hopes, fears, sorrows and regrets.
They say you even forget your name
and never again are quite the same;
that’s what mother and father
told her when she said she’d rather
take her chances with the wood
than be good.
The woods were winding, a maze that led
to a center house of gingerbread.
There a witch waited to catch and bake
children into gingerbread cake.
(She used the cake to make her walls;
oh! Her delicious smelling halls!)
The witch had been there, legend told
since time began – extremely old
and wicked was she they said
Rebecca soon got lost in there
and wandered to the witches’ lair.
Rebecca met the witch in a briary ditch.
With lemon pie eyes that mesmerized,
witchie lured Rebecca in, grinning a walnut grin.
If you met a witch in a briar ditch would you gamble with the bramble?
Rebecca gave the witch the benefit of the doubt
and soon saw what her parents were talking about.
Part II
The witch led her through woods outside of time
till they reached the part where no birdsongs chime.
There, in the center, a small house stood
upon 4 chicken legs, smelling quite good.
The shingles were made of gingerbread cake
still warm from the oven; freshly baked!
Rock candy served for windowpanes,
a gingerbread boy for the weathervane.
Thick vanilla frosting made up layers of trim
and gumdrops encircled a cookie roof’s rim.
The porch posts were made of candy canes
and wound all around was a butterscotch lane.
The door was a giant chocolate bar
with a licorice knob in the shape of a star.
The hedges were made of popcorn balls,
“Inside,” witchie said, “there are cookie walls.”
Lollipop flowers dotted marshmallow grass
and ‘round back a sugar lake glistened like glass.
“Come in my dear, come, come, come,
the furniture’s made of bubble gum.”
Witchie pulled Rebecca in,
grinning a walnut grin.
She sat Rebecca on a bubblegum chair,
muttering a spell to keep her there.
She waved her willow wand in the air:
“Higgledy, piggledly, tiggledy, pine,
Rebecca will stay a long, long time.”
When she woke, Rebecca found
a table laid all around
with mounds and mounds of gingerbread
and candies white, blue, yellow and red.
With a cry of delight
she ate everything in sight
then was given a caramel colored gown ,
led to a bed made of soft swans down
and tucked under a coverlet, gingerbread brown.
Yes, Rebecca thought she was safe,
but, in truth, narrowly escaped.
The witch chose not to make
Rebecca into gingerbread cake.
She was lonely and, what’s more,
she had several reasons for the gingerbread door.
The witch had been searching for years and years
for the right child to frighten to tears
then keep instead of eat.
Although the inhabitants of the town
(encircled by the wood on three sides ‘round),
believed there to be one everlasting witch
who lurked with lemon pie eyes in the ditch,
They were mistaken.
The witch was faking.
Witches die just like everyone,
(but live longer and have more fun).
Though each witch of the wood, (quite a long line),
pretended they lived till the end of time,
it was a game, lending their wickedness weight.
Each knew she would be replaced.
Each one chose the next to come
a hundred days before her life was done.
The witch knew Rebecca would succeed
if asked to follow her wicked lead.
She could tell by smell that, not only bad,
the girl was the very worst she’d had.
She tested Rebecca, nonetheless
to confirm her suspicion that she was the best.
Part III
When Rebecca woke, the walls were bare.
There wasn’t a sweet to be found anywhere!
The witch made her shell five thousand peas
and scrub the whole house on her hands and knees;
then doled out endless, horrible tasks,
each more dull and grueling than the last.
Every day there was water to fetch,
the garden to weed and dinner to catch.
Each night, the witch made Rebecca spin, then
unraveled her cloth again and again.
She had nothing to eat but black pea pie
and put was put in a cage each time she cried.
“If you do exactly as I ask
and don’t complain of any task
in a hundred days you’ll get a surprise.”,
the old witch said with blazing eyes.
Rebecca knew there was no way
she’d ever, ever get away.
So she did what the old witch said
and remained very, extremely afraid.
Children came but not to play,
(they never were children for more than a day).
The witch turned each into gingerbread
with raisin eyes and icing on its head.
After some time, Rebecca laid down
then woke once again in a bed of swans down
so found the house in its’ previous state,
all cookies and icing with a sugar lake.
To her surprise, she wasn’t asked
to perform a single impossible task.
“Now you’ll replace me,” said the witch with a grin,
“it’s the reason, you see, that I lured you in.
I knew you were the one.
Sorry it hasn’t been more fun,
but all good things come with a price
what’s worthwhile often isn’t nice.
Rebecca didn’t know what to say.
She thought and thought and thought that day.
As the witch she’d be hated, even feared.
She’d likely be lonely for hundreds of years
but she’d have magic and could finally do
whatever she chose or liked to do.
She could change any fortune or circumstance.
She took the chance.
For years and years she got to stay
in the cookie house eating gingerbread all day.
Epilogue
Her dry-eyed mother and father insisted they missed the little bother.
They said they never meant to harm her but still they didn’t warn her
of gambles with brambles bringing girls no good,
they only warned her of the wood.
They too ended as they deserved,
so spent their lives with pea pie served
as a daily routine.
Occasionally it seemed
they heard a witches cry
or saw, way up in the sky
a girl , something like Rebecca, fly
across the waxing moon.
Poor father and mother
cry a little then recover.
What happened then?
That’s another tale, this one’s reached its end.
The Ballad of Hylah the Hapless
Part I
Once upon a time in Illiodd,
(where thick is the air and damp is the sod),
Hylah the Handsome met Gunther the King.
That changed everything,
changed the history of the very land;
more than either would ever understand.
She had silvery locks near three feet long.
Her voice lilted and lifted like a song
full of blossoming notes,
“She almost floats.”
Gunther thought when he saw her, “Her step is so light,
the very grass seems to leap in delight.”
Gunther had just been crowned king of the land
and nearly seven feet tall did he stand.
They were both as beautiful as the dawn
and neither would ever do anything wrong.
Within a few hours of meeting they were wed,
then honeymooned with violets for a bed
and a canopy of Spanish moss and vines
draped on bedposts of knotted pine.
Cobwebs sparkling with dew
layered like blankets over the two.
When they kissed all the stars fell down
and the moon put on a golden crown.
Every bee in the land buzzed with delight.
Every bird sang, although it was night.
The fairies formed an enormous ring
then began to dance and sing.
The centaurs joined them with pipes of clay
that never a more haunting song did play.
Elves threw their caps up in the air
and played upon harps strung from dryads hair.
Even the dragons woke up and flew,
speckling the fields with diamond dew.
Because they knew
That this was the purest, truest love
Illiodd would ever hear of.
So it was when Gunther and Hylah met.
A meeting both would live to regret
but at first there was only the golden glow
of love and the moon and the horn’s sweet blow.
Part II
The next morning was the first of May,
the year’s most magical, beautiful day.
They woke to a sky of violet and blue
upon a hill speckled with crystalline dew
each drop made from a piece of moon.
They breakfasted from dragon scale spoons.
Then the whole kingdom gathered ‘round
and crowned them both with butterfly crowns.
They danced with dragonflies twined in their hair
as the they descended the palace stair
to find Eadred the Ageless waiting there.
“Yours is the truest purest love
the people of Illiodd will ever hear of.
And it will meet the saddest end
of anything that will ever begin.
but with this comes the joy of knowing
that no other love, however long in growing
will ever touch what you two feel
nothing in the world will ever be as real.”
Ageless Eadred said,
shaking his wise white head.
Gunther and Hylah were not consoled
they feared he meant they wouldn’t grow old
or have much time to enjoy their delight.
They were right.
Fairy legend foretold
of Gunther the Bold.
Within a few hours wed.
Within a few years dead.
Mind you this;
his twin, Gaither, wanted Hylah for his own.
He didn’t want to share the throne.
Legend foretold
Gaither would murder Gunther Bold
and start the nine hundred years fairy wars
with not need but greed as the ultimate cause.
Long after these two were no more
the land remained in the bloody wars
that got it’s start in the breaking of their hearts.
Yes, Gaither disguised as a bleak black knight
challenged Gunther to a fight
then cheated and killed him too
he ran him through and through
with a magical awl, (got from Eadred some say),
then married Hylah that same day.
She was named Hylah the Hapless after she died,
(never was there a sadder, more senseless demise).
Never wanting to see another tomorrow,
she cast herself in the River of Everlasting Sorrow.
The rule of Gaither was so perverse
things so quickly went from bad to worse,
that the fairies who Gunther had nicely subdued
started getting more than a little rude
and decided to put up quite a fight
they tried to kill every human in sight
for nine hundred years – what happened then?
That’s another tale, this one’s reached it’s end.
Once Upon a Blue, Blue Moon
(it had grown in the sky all day, since noon.
It astonished everyone's eyes
who chanced to glance at the sky),
a girl heard it whispered that the moon just might
answer back if you called it while standing in it's light.
(It was said that this was only true
when the moon was blue.)
Now, a blue moon is a rare and remarkable sight.
That very night she had heard
one would come. She thought up moon-words.
She plotted and planned.
She wondered where she should stand.
It took all day
to decide what to say.
What would you say to a moon hanging low
with a face all blue and all aglow?
What would you ask if you caught it's glance?
What would you tell if you had the chance?
She had a strong feeling such conversations should be secret
but there was one she thought if she told would keep it.
She should have known better, she should have known that
it was, after all, curiosity killed the cat.
The person she told was her oldest friend
with whom she'd played countless games of pretend.
She said, "I couldn't bear to keep from you
enchantment that's not pretend, but true!"
She told her that, when the clock struck midnight,
when the moon was it's bluest and most bright,
she planned to go 'round the moon counter-clockwise.
(Going this way, she'd heard, ensured her words would rise
to the ears of the moon in the dark, blue-tinged sky).
It was giving that away
that ruined what might have been a great day.
Her friend liked to pretend, that's true, but the hitch
was, tired of pretending, she'd become quite a witch.
And she knew that the value of a secret
lay most in how you managed to keep it.
So the would-be moon-whisperer didn't know
that her friend had the power to steal her moon-show;
which is just what was planned.
Here's how it began...
As soon as she heard the news, witchy took
a look inside an ancient book
she had on hand.
She consulted the chapters concerning moons that were blue
and how one might get a wish or two, or a moonbeam all one's own.
She found in the dusty, musty old tome
only one way. It took her all day
to figure out how to go about
getting her way.
"If you want the moon to make your dream come true
you must wait until it is brilliant and blue.
You must sneak up upon it just at the strike
of the last lonesome chime pealing midnight.
You must turn backwards and counter-clockwise around
and draw a circle across the ground.
Then stand in the middle and say this just so:
"Puteulanus luna operor ut ego dico!"
"Say it three times, then take your fist
and grab at it's beams, do it quick!
Then say as though it meant your life:
"Illa es mei!"
"Then take a knife
that shines as brightly as the moon glows
and wave it around under her nose
and demand
that she do as you command."
I wonder what the girl wants so bad?
You must wait till tomorrow, though it drives you mad
to not know
the way the tale will go.
What would you say to a moon hanging low
with a face all blue and all aglow?
What would you ask if you caught it's glance?
What would you tell if you had the chance?
It seemed night would never arrive, both girls grew impatient.
(When something remarkable's coming, you don't want to wait for it.)
Then, at last, it happened! The dark night fell!
When midnight came, they caught their breath with each bell
that chimed the time.
Now, you may wonder, again, what they wanted so badly?
Well, the first girl loved a distant man madly.
A distant man in a distant land
who she'd met when his ship stopped in an unplanned
port. She implored
him to stay, he'd begged her to go
but neither did, though each loved the other so
they could barely breathe without being seized
with desire, consumed by fire
that wouldn't extinguish.
She wanted the moon to bring this
tortured situation, without hesitation
to an end. She wanted the moon to bend
time itself to the day he went away.
This time, she would go.
Otherwise, you cannot know
how desolate she would remain.
You can't concieve of the pain
she'd endured since their parting.
She was beyond broken-hearted.
It was a harmless, unselfish wish.
I wish I could say the same of the witch.
She had a very different sort of motivation
for participating in the blue moon situation.
She'd loved him too, of course, that shouldn't surprise
you to hear. It had been a year but her longing eyes
never strayed.
She had never claimed
his heart aloud.
She was far too proud
to let anyone know she'd fallen so
victim to anyone's charms.
She intended harm
to her moon-gazing friend.
She didn't want to pretend
for one more day;
no way.
She wasn't about to let her go
to him, couter-clock or otherwise, so
she crept quietly and low in the blue moon's glow;
so she followed, followed, followed, oh!
She snuck up on moon and girl just at the strike
of the last lonesome chime pealing midnight!
She turned backwards and counter-clockwise around.
She drew a circle across the ground.
Then stood in the middle and said this just so:
"Puteulanus luna operor ut ego dico!"
She said it three times, then took her fist
and grabbed at the moon's beams, she did it quick!
Then she said as though it meant her life:
"Illa es mei!"
Then she took a knife
that shone as brightly as the moon glowed
and waved it around under her nose
saying, "I demand
you do as I command!"
The moon shook with a great, shivvering quake.
She shot moon beams like water, creating a lake
of moon glow all around.
She covered the ground
in cold, shimmering fire.
Her gaze was full of ire.
"What is it that you want so bad
that you would DARE make me this mad?
Who is it that presumes
to go grabbing beams off the very moon?
I will swallow you whole! I will take my toll
on each flutter of your eyelids!
Put the beams back or you'll wish you did!"
You must wait till tomorrow to know
the way the rest of the tale will go.
What would you say to a moon hanging low
with a face all blue and all aglow?
WShat would you ask if you caught it's glance?
What would you tell if you had the chance?
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