NIGHT TERROR 7
I was born by a blarney stone,A long long time ago.
The stories that I could weave,
Was like a short shirt having a sleeve.
Woven into everyone's tapestry,
My true title was unknown to me.
But let me tell you a little story,
As I told all the passengers without fuss,
As a bus conductor on the beachy Head bus.
Back in the eighteenth century,
When the druids were abound.
That was the time in history,
When the witch finder general was around.
Night mist was lying on the ground,
As they rode wearily towards beachy Head.
His men were worn and tired,
The horses needed to be fed.
They went to the old monastery,
That was on their road ahead.
When they got there it was an eerie sight,
For there seemed to be no one there,
In the dead off night.
A cellar door left open was found,
Well hidden in the monastery grounds.
That's where they saw the monk's,
Practicing the darkest of witchcraft.
They gathered up the monk's,
Or so I heard it said.
Chained them up together,
Then marched them all,
To the top of beachy Head.
As the witchfinder general, Pushed
the first one off the edge.
( which started a chain reaction).
The last one turned and said,
I curse this place for all of eternity.
Then jumped into his own death.
That is the reason why we have,
So many suicides at beachy Head.
And if you glance at that piece of grass,
Where there's a rope placed around.
That's where they think they found,
The cellar to the monastery.
That was buried underground.
Not one of the Americans,
That were aboard my bus,
Had realised. That the story
That I told them,
Was all a pack of lies.
But then again here at beachy Head,
We do seem to get,
An awful lot off suicides.
So carefully remember, Never
stand to close to the edge,
Just in case you are next.
Poetry by Alan J Ripley
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Written on 2024-06-26 at 00:12
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