Poor Tom

Poor Tom

It’s warm in the pub, but then comes the rub,
the gaffer spins stories of woe, poor thing.
Tom’s third pint of ale is soured by the tale
of the vanishing maid of York, poor thing.

Soon Tom’s off for home, a tramp through the gloam,
eyes nervously darting about, poor thing.
Cold winds doth howl, a clench in his bowel,
alone on the moor in the dark, poor thing.

His torch is near dead, but light shows ahead,
held high by a maiden who’s lost, poor thing.
She lures Tom off-course through heather and gorse,
and he’s never been seen again, poor thing.

Author's note: ▼

   

Written for the August 2021 round of Monsters Under the Bed.

Prompt: The North Wind Doth Blow

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Monsters Under The Bed - CLOSED  (18+) Nursery Rhymes have taken a dark turn... #2231795 by Lilith of House Martell