A present for Terry. Thanks for all the laughs.
Crones & Bones
Three old crones, and a bundle of bones, crouched down by a fire bright
In the lee of a hill ‘neath a cloud wracked sky, all on a darkling night
Said one old crone ‘burn that bundle o' bones and keep the fire alight
them’ll make it burn higher, make a real big fire, and chase away the night'
Now upon those words something strange occurred, it would never have happened in day,
up stood the bones, with rattles and groans, and slowly walked away.
They walked away with a nod of the head, as if just to be polite,
but the skull fell off and began to roll, away from the fires light.
It hit a stone, did that old bone, and gleefully bounced away
and the bones they strolled after the skull that rolled, heading where ever it may
They pursued its flight, walking quite upright, as the skull it bounced away
if they kept the head, caught the skull instead, they’d go home and there they’d stay
But bones is bones and have no right to be up and about in the middle o' the night
when some old crones, who're not abed, but crouched ’round a fire on the moor instead,
got a sudden fright as the bones stood up, knocked over their only drinking cup, and slowly walked away
Said the second old crone ‘it don't seem right to chase them bones into the night
They just wants warm, just a bit of heat, to warm the bones of their bony feet
Up spoke the third, ‘til now unheard (but she had the most to say)
‘To think that we sat, us three and the cat, ‘til them bones just walked away
They could’ve said, ‘fore they lost their head, and wandered from the fire
that they didn’t want a seat, just a nice warm heat, was all that they desired’
The bones returned to the rest they’d earned but without the missing head
although they thought they’d just been spurned, they should’ve been glad they’d not been burned,
but they felt quite sad instead
They’d have to find that errant skull before their winters sleep; they’d have to search through rain and snow,
a’hunting they would have to go, their rest would have to keep.
And so they went, but nice and slow, climbing high and looking low
from nearly there, to far away, for many a mile and many a day
up lots of hills (and quite a few stairs), no sitting down (no handy chairs)
Until, at last, on a bleak hillside, they found the skull (crows nest inside)
and danced a rattling kind of jig, not giving a hoot nor yet a fig
if anyone heard or even saw, ignored the crows’ indignant caw, set skull upon their neck
Now they’d found that shiny skull, that gleaming bone receptacle
that said, with softly, whispering voice ‘you don’t really have a choice’
you need to hear, inside this head,
‘I’m still here’ and ‘I’m not dead’
Deep in the ground’s where bones is found, and not on the moor just lying around
in a hole that’s sometimes six foot deep in a nice little plot that’s clean and neat
where the only sound is the creak of the ground, as the frost digs down,
As the frost digs down, but not too deep, so it won’t disturb their lasting sleep.
Always wear a shirt when: Frying eggs, playing with cats, when it's raining molten lead . . .