A Tale With No Good Ending

It was just beneath his gnarled old feet

That first he felt the feel,

The slow and supple writhing

Of the horse-faced eel.

 

It was on his pale and spindly legs

Where first he did begin,

To note the clutch of slimy lips

Upon his limpid skin.

 

It was in the dark and gathering gloom

Where first he did behold,

A troop of pale white marsh monkeys

Sporting freakishly in the mould.

 

It was out of the corner of his scaly eye

Where first he caught the sight,

Of rows and rows of sharp thin teeth

Phosphorescing silently in the night.

 

It was on his moist and grimy neck –

A cold and awful nudge,

That sent him down to meet his end

Prostrate upon the sludge.

 

 

 

 

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