Some Old Poems
Sing a song of goblins,
a pocket full of elves.
Four and twenty white mice,
talking to themselves.
elves and mice get free.
Run of in the undergrowth,
ever live happily.
Once upon a goblin time
when goblin poems were deemed to rhyme
and grass was green, and the earth stood still
and folk were pink, and never ill,
and life began at birth, not death,
and men were men, and all the rest,
that time was great, and never dull,
and now just look, the earth is full,
and grass is blue, and ground does move
and folk are green, and never groove,
and life is death, and men are dead
and all because, it once was said,
that goblins don't exist no more,
it's all superstitious dumb folklore
(c)me, sometme in the late 1980s.