boggle -- Badger Poetry

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THE BOGGLE.

A Boggle came sliding down the slick slate escarpment,
Down, down the hills, and a-hurdling the brook,
And as he stambled and stuggered his scramble,
His five beady eyes stayed stuck still to a book...
“Oh gorge me with sweetmeats, and garb me with satin!
Perfume my pedestal, polish my throne!
I’ve roamed these rent slate peaks since first they ascended,
Now is the time to be making me home.

His book had come falling one wet Wednesday morning,
From the beak of an Owl who had hooted too hard,
On his morning meandering back to Bird library,
He wasn’t so wise, He’d forgotten his card,
And it dropped like an Acorn on top of poor Boggle,
Who dozed in siesta on a slick bed of slate,
He spat and sat up in a filthy black humour,
Then espied the book, laid wide open in state.

The Boggle-a-goggle peered pent at the pictures,
But yet showed no interest yet in the words,
For when he first grew all the schools were but twinkles,
And anyway, this one was written in Bird.
Though he saw their great cities and civil achievements,
Their fine feathered fashions and automobiles,
And a-gripped with a lust, and a-green with greed fever,
He chose to abandon his cold nest to steal.

Now the truth with the Birds is they’re terrible liars,
Or prone to exaggerate some of the facts,
And anyway, this book was Bird science-fiction,
It said so in Pigeon, on the back of the flap.
But all Boggle saw was a wonderful City,
Stained glass and marble, gardens of gold,
So he’d rose and then chose to abandon his barren,
Great Peak retreat, oh so lonely and cold.

Now Boggles have three legs that end in five flippers,
And two pairs of arms for a -tickling the sky,
A ball of a body, and smell like old kippers,
That someone’s defrosted and forgotten to fry,
A terrible mouth, all mangled and tangled,
Five fearful eyes that all look different ways,
A hairstyle straight out of the sensational seventies,
So the last ones that turn tend to live far away.

And Boggles are not famed for their personal hygiene,
A rub down with mud maybe every few weeks,
For soap and hot water are a relative rarity,
Up in a Boggles home, high in the peaks.
So stinky excited, he tumbled on downwards,
Dribbling daintily over the book,
Till at last he lay at the foot of a valley,
And rubbed his five eyes for an all around look.

Now a stream struggled shyly along the green valley,
Through blotches of goose bush, and straggly trees,
Fish flopped Plop! Back into their first love,
And cities of midges swayed in the breeze,
The boggle looked this way and that, without turning,
First North and then south, East, finally West,
Then tossing a toadstool to aid his decision,
Decided to roll on down river was best.

Down to a waterfall, ringing with laughter,
Groaning and foaming as urgent it crashed,
Deep in a pool swam a tressed hair maiden,
Round in the eddies and currents she splashed,
Cavorting with Otters and tickling the Fishes,
Whispering her secrets to silvery ears,
Down from the waterfall gazed spell-struck Boggle,
Enchanted by what his sharp senses drew near.

Modest with Ivy, flattered by Lilies,
The Nymph caught his face looking high o’erbove,
And she cried ”Oh my Brother, so long now forgotten,
Where did you get to, my long and lost love?”
The Boggle was horrified, did he remember?
Could he recall having Sister or Brother?
It was so long ago that He’d stepped down below,
I don’t think he would even remember his Mother.

“Remind me, advise me, aid my poor memory
That can’t even recall the rules to this game...
If it’s a truth that you are my family,
Please, Water-Lily girl, what is your name?”
“So you do still remember, sweet Brother Boggle!
Where have you been, so long I’m alone!
Lily has lain all alone in this valley,
With only this waterfall screen as a home...”

Then she rose from the pool, shading her modesty,
And held out a hand that he gingerly took,
And led him behind the great Waterfalls curtain,
Into a cavern, and when he looked up,
Stalactites fell almost down to impale him,
While stalagmites reared up toothy replies,
She sat in a clearing, not unlike a living room,
And holding his flipper, looked deep in his eyes.

“Do you recall our Eden departure,
Before all the Mortals were mixed up and made?
Remember the world where only Immortals
And spirits that sang, early rested and played?
And you in the Garden, a Baby-Boy Boggle,
Mischievous and naughty by nature as well,
Would leapfrog the sprites and the Nymphs, and the Dyads,
Before we went forth for our Idyll’s to dwell.

Your Odour has certainly, lets say matured,
In the span of eternity we’ve been apart,
And your body is warty, and baggy, and wrinkled,
But I see from your smile that you’ve still a good heart.
So where in the world wide have you been hiding
For all this un-time that I’ve sadly seeked ?”
The Boggle blushed bashfully, wished for a shower,
And said ”I live high in that ponderous peak...”

Lightning’s my lighting, My doorbell is thunder,
Beds of slate stone and blankets of mist,
Brackens my pillow, and birds my alarm-clock,
Each dawn by the Sun’s love I’m tenderly kissed.
But few come a-calling, so close to the sky-line,
For company, chit-chat, and gossip I crave...
And riches and luxuries, I hunger to try them,
Now, by some fortune, by you I am saved.

Look here inside my most magical treasure,
An unbeckoned book that blew from the sky,
And see all the great cities, the wonders and marvels,
The Birdies have built, and the fashions they fly.
I lust to encounter such civilization,
In contrast complete to my current Enclave...
So abroad now I wander to seek out their city,
With marble encircled, and gold it is paved.

Lily, delicately, took book from Boggle,
And skimmed through it’s pages with eyes that grew wide,
She said “This is all nonsense! The Birds have no City!
Like Old Lobsang Rampa, the Birdies have lied!
There are though great cities, far, far, away yonder,
But not built by beak, but a terrible hand,
And you’ve still yet to meet their terrible constructor,
The newest addition, they call it Human...”

He said “Human, eh? They sound terribly chewy...
Are they nice with turnip, or onions or cheese?”
She said “Their not nice at all, boiled or new battered,
Across all the land they have spread like disease.
Unsavoury things they are well wont to practice,
For all their short lives they think naught of their souls,
Only their appetites grow ever larger,
And bitterness plagues them as they grow old.
“Cruel the twist of this creature!” Cried Boggle,
“But glorious must be his Earthly Domain!
Golden with great graven globular bauble,
Diamonds like Islands, a-fixed in a chain,
Perfect his palace, glorious his garden,
Ermine his knickers, and sumptuous his bed,
If the Birds have exaggerated, stolen his handiwork,
Then it is Humans I must seek instead!”

Lily grew pale, and her pool grey eyes deepened,
She shivered and fearfully clutched at his frame,
“Brother, don’t do it, don’t walk with the Humans,
They cannot be trusted, to them your fair game.
Those of our kind who have encountered them,
Never returned to tell what they saw,
What sad fate befell them, none of us knowing,
The advice I offers an unwritten law.

Our kind are not meant to kill time with Mortals,
They’ve a different perspective, agenda, and art.
Pray do not take this vain pleading too lightly,
They’ve a razor sharp mind, but too blunted a heart,
But Boggle, determined, stood up like an arrow,
“I fear not these temporary tenants!” He booms!
And out through the great sobbing Waterfalls curtain,
He left his poor Sister to weep in her rooms.

On down the river he rolled like a lost stone,
Thicker grew bushes, bigger the trees,
Until the sliver of silvery river
Snaked like an adder, into the dark eaves
Of primordial forest, creaking and groaning,
As soft sighing breezes shifted her arms.
Deeper, and deeper, into leafy twilight,
He stubbornly stumbled, obsessed and encharmed.

Eventually the pathway divorces the river,
He’s lost in a clearing with no way to go,
He looks for his lost route both hither and thither,
But sees only trees wrapped with tight Mistletoe.
Scratching his bald bit, he stops for a breathback,
Leaning against one great reclining Oak,
And slipped into snoring in only an instant,
But someone came calling before ‘ere he woke.

From Boggly eyed dreams, he’s gingerly shaken,
Returning to consciousness slowly from snooze,
As slowly our Hero recalls and awakens,
Some green garbed fellow is singing the Blues...
“Hail and well met, Cousin Boggle, long thought lost,
Where are you going and where have you been?
I’m sorry to shake you, I needed to wake you,
I hope I did not disturb perfect Bog dreams.

Boggle sits up, snorts, and fixes the fellow
With a suspicious look from his five beady eyes.
“Who the Hades are you? Yet still more of my kindred?”
The Chlorophyll chap looks quite sad and surprised...
“Why Cousin, it’s I , the Mistletoes Dyad,
Don’t say you’ve forgotten the games that we played?
The Hide and Seek, Tiggy, and Musical Bushes,
When only our kindred were first met and made?”

The chap tapped the Oak, and Crack! It snapped open,
He leads Cousin Boggle so deep now within,
And hastens him forward to a secret chamber,
And offers him Apples, for thinks Boggles thin.
“So to lunch and the crunch, then, oh long absent Cousin!
Where have you been since so long we last met?
And where were you going so urgently presently?
How did your Cousin you come to forget?”

A-Birds book did bump me atop my wild mountain,
And seeking their Palaces and Cities I flew,
Down from my home to seek out their riches,
But then was informed that this book wasn’t true,
By sweet sister Lily, who also I forgot,
Yet she showed me much kindness, and much more info...
She told me the Humans had something much similar,
So now to their cities it’s off that I go!

Mistletoes jaw dropped, he turned slightly lime-green,
And clutched at his forehead with terror and fear,
“The Humans? Oh, Cousin, what was Lily a-thinking?
It’s not for our sort to ever draw near,
Their decadent dwellings and great ghastly grandeur,
For Civilisation’s a much misunderstood word,
You’d best be forgetting this misadvised mission,
Go back to your mountain, be content with the birds.

For Humans are subtle, and sly, and conniving,
And too little hope beats hot deep in their hearts,
They strive to control even each other,
And practice the blackest of magical arts.
High sweep their Towers, but deeper their gutters,
And fickle their faith to their lovers and friends,
Most of their short lives is spent madly hoarding,
Only to lose it all, come their sure end.

While we walk eternal, with only the dewdrops,
And pebbles and acorns as treasures enough,
Never for sustenance do such Sprites hunger,
The joy of existence is eternal love.
So please, Cousin Boggle, arrest this dire progress,
Return to your shattered cold mountainous peak,
There’s only dark danger and treacherous peril,
Waiting amidst the damned creatures you seek.

Boggle cried “Coward! What fear I of mortals!
One slap of my flippers would knock them all down,
You cannot persuade me, already delayed me,
I’m off on my sojourn to ensnare their crowns.”
And with that he sprang upwards and out through the fissure,
Leaving poor Mistletoe sat melancholy,
For he felt in his heart, his misadvised Cousin,
Never again, poor Boggle would see.

Boggle ran ragged through thorns and thick bushes,
For a day and a night he ran on mad and blind,
Till the forest was thinning, the foliage decreasing,
And still just one thought was stuck fast in his mind,
Into green grassy clearings, he stumbled a-fevered,
Where tall span the patterns of wildly whipped corn,
And atop a great stone wall, a figure sat waiting,
Shading his eyes from the glare of the morn.

The length of the field was passed by in an instant,
And Boggle gazed up at the dry stone slate sculpture,
Where shadowed by sunlight, and stony in silence,
The stranger glared down at poor Boggle like a vulture.
Boggle coughed “Well, now what is it?
If you’ve something to say then do not waste my time.
Don’t tell me your family that I’ve forgotten,
Another encounter would cost me my mind.

“Let me refresh you, oh thick long lost nephew!
I’m your Uncle Dew Morning, and it’s long that I’ve missed,
Your grinding teeth grating and voluminous snoring,
AS I washed your flippers and furball with mist.
In that early haven where first we did dally,
Like thick office shag-pile grew the green grass,
I’ve often a-wondered what fate had befell you,
Since from the garden’s gates, all of us passed.

So where are you going in such a flurry,
Surely our maker did not deem your fate,
To run like some chicken in search of his lost head?
Boggle, in general, roll more sedate.
This way lies trouble, let me assure you,
For your not too far now from the Humans abode,
I suggest you arrest your acceleration,
And pause now to pick a less dangerous road.

So where’ve you been hiding, since last I encountered
Your cute crooked grin, and most unique smell?
I’ve sniffed for your presence on sunny spring mornings,
As I lay like a blanket o’er meadows and dell,
But ne’er caught a snort of your pungent aroma,
I’d recall our games, and often I’d cry,
Wondering what was the fate that befell you,
When from the garden we’d said our good-bye.

“Lightning’s my lighting, My doorbell is thunder,
Beds of slate stone and blankets of mist,
Brackens my pillow, and birds my alarm-clock,
Each dawn by the Sun’s love I’m tenderly kissed.
But few come a-calling, so close to the sky-line,
For company, chit-chat, and gossip I crave...
And riches and luxuries, I hunger to try them,
Now, by some fortune, by you I am saved.”

Dew-morning dropped from the wall, face like thunder,
And grabbing poor Boggle, he shook him with rage,
“You must not seek the Humans, you stupid old spirit!
For between them and us is a different age.”
“Lily and Mistletoe told me the same tale...”
Boggle blurts angrily at his mad Uncle,
And shakes himself free with a flap of his flippers,
Like shedding himself of some monstrous carbuncle.

Dew-morning fell into the glistening grass stalks,
And with a quick hop, Mad Boggles away...
Leaving his Uncle to pick himself upwards,
Dust himself down, and shout out a loud “Hey!
Come back, Nephew Boggle, it’s in your best interests!
To listen to wise old wet Uncle Dew-morning.”
But he’s already gone fast way out of hearing,
His worried old Uncle’s wise worthy warning.

On like a mad thing, straight through the midmorning,
The field finds a pathway, a track, then a road,
He’s catching a scent of a strange thing approaching,
And squats to sniff better, not unlike a toad.
Then round the next bend that the pathway considers,
Footsteps are falling, and silvery laughter.
Boggle grins broadly, licks flies from his forehead,
Is this a Human thing like he is after?

Round the roads corner totters a small thing,
A stumbling two-foot-six cherub of curls,
Wriggling with merriment, chock-full of giggles,
An adorable bundle of lost little girl.
And Poor Boggles heart melts to see such a vision,
Of innocence, joy, and pure love to live...
He’d thought up till now that he’d surely just eat them,
But this Human his whole heart he’d willingly give.

She skips up to Boggle, then stops in amazement,
And looks at him from his webbed feet to his head,
He thinks she may scream, and tries to smile friendly
But she holds out a hand for to stroke him instead.
And Boggle, the Goggle-eyed king of the thunder
And lightning, gurgles and purrs like a kitten.
She’s not scared at all, this Human so small,
And paternally, soft old big Boggle is smitten.

“Goo- goo-ar-oo?” gurgles the child,
Which Boggle considers and tries to translate,
They’d not learnt much language, then, when you consider,
The scope of their Art, and the size of their state.
But language to spirits is felt more than heard,
And he knew in his heart what she wanted to know.
Encharmed, off his guard, and in mortal danger,
He sings her again his sad story, like so:

“Lightnings my lighting, My doorbell is thunder,
Beds of slate stone and blankets of mist,
Brackens my pillow, and birds my alarm-clock,
Each dawn by the Sun’s love I’m tenderly kissed.
But few come a-calling, so close to the sky-line,
For company, chit-chat, and gossip I crave...
And riches and luxuries, I hunger to try them,
Now, by some fortune, by you I am saved.”

Now , Ironically, little Humans are more in tune
With the natural world, and it’s spirits and sprites,
And walk in the middle, until they grow older,
So she heard his story, and her face glowed with light,
And grabbing one flipper, she turned to face homewards,
And skipping the couple are rolling away,
She thought she’d take Boggle a-home to meet Mother,
What Boggle was thinking, I just cannot say.

On down the road go boggle and companion,
Round to a sheltering bower of oaks,
Hopping through haysticks, hither and thither,
Tiggy on high, and other such jokes.
And there sits a cottage with smoke from the chimney,
And washing a-waving, windswept on the line,
The scent on the breeze is of beautiful baking,
Boggle thinks ‘Ah!, It is near dinner time!’

The doorstep is darkened by light footsteps falling,
A woman emerges with armfuls of washing,
Baby and boggle bounce ever nearer,
Splash! In a puddle now baby is sploshing,
And mother looks upwards at all the noises,
The clutches her mouth with horror and fear,
What is this vile and weird apparition
That right by her baby is drawing a’near?

She darts out and snatches the tearful toddler,
Who shrieks like a cat at herninth life’s last end
Bwaling and howling to be so soon parted
From her newly discovered big boggly friend,
And heel turned, quick dashes back inside the building,
Slams fast the door and turns the locks tight,
At peeps through the keyhole at confused old Boggle,
Who never expected to cause such a fright.

“Who or what are you, you hairy anomaly?
Please pass by our good god-fearing home!
We’ve no truck with the Devil or agents of darkness,
Go seek some sinners and leave us alone!”
Boggle is puzzled, Oh what is she saying?
Surely she really cannot mean him?
And he gently knocks on the doorstep
Plaintively pleading “Oh, can’t I come in?”

“Go back to your Mountain then, dirty old Devil!
We don’t want your company or dark conversation!
We’re a God-fearing family, simple and poor,
No time for Old Nick, or his long-lost relations!
Darken the doorsteps down in the city,
Leave us poor pilgrims alone and unharmed.
You can weave your dark magic as much as you may,
But never you’ll fool us, we will not be charmed!”

“Curdle the milk of the cows in the meadow,
Scare all the starlings and put them to flight,
Walk over the roof-tops a-leaving your foot prints,
In snowy mid-winter, in the dark of the night,
But do not come calling at our humble cottage,
Your kinds conversation is not welcome here,
Go on to the city, and seek out a sinner,
There’s plenty to choose from down there, so I hear.”

Boggles lip trembled, his eyes welled with sorrow,
So soon to have lost his little new friend,
And be so insulted by an ignorant mother,
Who never he’d saught to cause harm or offend.
But plainly his presence was sadly unwelcome,
The doors staying locked and the curtains are drawn,
He wobbles away from the tumble-down cottage,
Still stuck to his quest, but now sad and forlorn.

On down the road to a city approaching,
He hears hearts heaving songs and the creaking of carts,
And sees the great walls that wrap tight the dwellings,
A heavy wood drawbridge, steel doors that part...
Silver shine steel blades, that glint back the suns gaze,
And figures that wander and watch from the tower,
A flag flicks it’s tongue in a lazy blue sky,
Emblazoned with lions and sigils of power.

They see him a-rolling from far away yonder,
And up drags the drawbridge, the doors are shut tight,
Hundreds of tongues far away seem to chatter,
Like terrified teeth as the drill starts to bite.
Along the great walls worried warriors huddle,
Make signs to their gods and shake in their bones,
At the terrible thing that still hops and waddles,
On down the road to their hovels and homes.

Boggle stops puzzled by the ditch of the drawbridge,
One flipper nonchalantly catching a fish
And calls to the cowardly boys on the battlements
“To sample extravagance is all that I wish!
To wrap me in Satin, find shoes for my flippers,
Sate my sick stomach, and quench my dry thirst!”
But down pour pich buckets and alsoablutions,
By men’s mortal tongues he’s derided and cursed.

A crown peaks a-peeping through arrow-hole spy holes,
Chilled by this vision, teeth chatters the king,
“What is this aberration that skulks by our drawbridge?
Never before have I seen such a thing.”
Call me my high priest, the cloaked court magician,
I’ll wait on his wit, and his wise magic words,
While Boggle bounced a jig, shouting and singing
“It’s just like the city of flying, lying birds!”

Throught the cold tunnels of stone flew the Kings call,
High to the nebulous nest of dark spells,
Where poured he o’er tomes of long-pig bound hide,
And plotted his course, for both worser and well,
So informed of the goblin, a-wrapped in his great cloak,
He hurries to where the King is still shaking,
And gazes wide-eyed at the shade that is Boggle,
Finished his fish, and now sitting there waiting.

The Alchemist squints from his one un-blind eye,
And strokes at his moustache with grave reservation,
“My Lord, this foul creature is a dark and deep Omen,
Reflecting our own, no less grave situation.
My conclusion is this, our oft-planned expansion,
All our weapons of Death, and the grave Art of War,
Will lead us to nought but the grace of this creature,
That so horribly dances mad jigs at our door.

The king clutched his soothsay with fear and blind panic,
“But the horses are ready, the men set to fight,
Surely to forestall our battle is foolish!
Never again will the time be so right!”
The Alchemist shhok his great standing stone head,
And repeated again his graven advice,
So the king slapped his subject with grave indignation
And cried “Such low words I will not hear twice!”

Gathering his dignity, the spellmaster gleefully
Turns to the King with a gleam in his eye,
“There is one potion left unexplored , Lord,
To capture this creature, and then, by and by,
By Magical means, to distill out his essence,
To capture his spirit, and ensnare his power,
I’ve knowledge enough to ensure the procedure,
If somehow he’s lured high up into my tower.

The King gazed gravely into his dead eye,
And shuddered to wonder what thoughts slunk within,
But was blinded by the baleful glare of the other,
On the twist of his lips, a malevolent grin.
So nodding his crown, almost surrendering,
He lifted his hand and said “Make it so...”
The message is passed right on down to the draw bridge,
Creaking great cogs spit and clank down below.

Boggle is shocked by this turn into welcome,
Blinking with wonder as drawbridge descends,
And then with a mad howl of Boggle excitement,
He skips cross the water to greet his new friends,
Beyond the great gatehouse, into the town square,
But barren and haunted, not thronging with life,
Only one small, sad boy shakes a-waiting,
Clutching a bent and blunt old butter knife.

“Pray do not eat me!” He wails with his eyes closed,
“I’m not even enough for a mid-morning snack!
I’m just a thin, trembling Mason’s apprentice,
Left here to show you the city and track,
To the Kings high appartments, high in the castle,
While all his brave warriors huddle within,
No-one will miss me, I’m only an orphan
Left in this city, no family or kin.”

Boggle, his whole heart overflowing,
Kneels at the chattering, weeping boy’s feet,
“Fear not! Just like you I have lost me a family,
And besides, you are not what I like best to eat...
Oh cowardly Mortals! To leave you to meet me,
Fear not little man, I will be your best friend,
Lead on to the King, and his cowardly subjects,
Isense that my journey’s approaching an end.

Through catacombs gloomy and dripping with dank,
The boy and the Boggle wander within,
Twisting and turning along torch-lit labyrinths,
Devoid of a noise, not the drop of a pin,
And up through the turrets, along polished passageways,
Where old, long dead kings down at them frowned,
A-clutching their swords and their sceptres bejewelled,
Faded with time, and bent by their crowns.

So round the worn steps to the Alchemists enclave,
High in the peak of the teeth of the tower,
Wrapped in the mist of old dark incantations,
Bubbling cauldrons and lost words of power.
Into the torchlight that sullenly huddled,
refusing to penetrate far in the gloom,
The Boy and the Boggle gingerly tiptoed
Into the Alchemists dark living room.

In a woodworm carved chair sat a dark waiting figure,
Clutching it’s arms with gnarled oak fingers,
“So are you the King, then?” Boggle barks roughly,
His eyes blaze an answer but silence still lingers...
Then creaking, he rises, and groaning with knowledge,
He reaches on over and raises his staff,
Froze to the spot, both the boy and the boggle,
His evil eye flashes and monstrous he laughs...

“Oh no, I am not the King of this city,
You mis-shapen monstrous and mad nature sprite!
I am his humble and poorly paid alchemist,
Or at least I am now, till tonight’s first moonlight!
When my spells will be summoned to distill your essence,
To trap your immortal first energy,
Enhancing my power, advance my position,
I’ll rule here as King, when your trapped in my tree...”

He scatters a circle of salt around trapped Boggle,
And mutters a low and dark phrase of containment,
Turning over a sand-glass, that grew with the moon,
In the meantime, the King calls for placatement,
So he leaves for the far away trembling throne room,
His dark treacerous heart a-pounding with joy,
Somehow it never occurred to question the loyalty,
Of that lowliest subject, the lost orphan boy.

Out of the glare of his cold evil eye,
The orphan is softening and starting to thaw,
As slowly the spell is weakened and waning,
His footsteps receding beyond the barred door.
And stirring and stretching, lazily yawning,
The infant arises as from a bad vision,
And see’s the sad frame of poor Boggle a-frozen,
Tight locked in time, in his former position.

The sands are turned and still surely sinking,
In books and old parchments the boy is long searching,
For though no-one had ever thought to enquire,
He was bright as a button, the abandoned urchin.
In an ancient old chest, tight-wrapped in cobwebs,
He finally found the answers at hand,
And sweeps clean the circle, mutters a wise word,
As low sinks the sun, closely followed by sand.

The door explodes open as the moon makes her entrance,
In strides the Alchemist, eyes wide with wonder,
Seeing the circle of salt surely scatters,
His evil old croaking cracks into thunder...
“Who is it has dared to disturb my enchantment?
Which fool seeks to meddle with my righteous path?”
Then, in the corner, he see’s the boy shaking,
A terrified little one clutching his staff.

His baleful eye blazes, his wretched hand reaches,
He hisses “Now, my boy, give me my stick.
You’re possessed by this lost evil spirit,
Enchanted perhaps, or possiblt thick.”
He darts twitching at him, but the boy is much nimbler,
And through his old bent legs the orphan is snaking,
Menwhile, poor Boggle, long paused and frozen,
From his spells slumber is finally waking.

The Alchemist grabs the gnarled staff end and wrangles,
Shaking the poor boy around the wrecked room,
Snarling and cursing, dancing a maelstrom,
The Devil’s own jig, to the Devil’s own tune...
But Boggle is angry, inflating bigger,
He see’s now so clearly the Human’s condition,
And tickling the sky and a-flapping his flippers,
He cracks open the storm with his great admonition.

And Crash! Cracked the sky with silvery forked tongues,
Sheets of hard rain that rattled the slates,
While all around rolling came tremulous thunder,
And the teeth of the clouds seemed to grumble and grate,
The tower was struck a terrible death-knell,
The walls tottered and groaned as they gave,
The Alchemist fell, and screamed out one last curse,
As his books and his art also fell to their grave.

But what of the Boggle in this weather wracked ruin?
And what of the orphan boy, one mortal friend?
Fear not, dear reader, the stories not over,
Although surely nearing now it’s happy end,
For Boggles can fly in thelightning wrapped sky,
Although I never mentioned it up until now,
How else could they escape this terrible fate?
And who’s telling this story to who, anyhow?

High in the peak of a cumulo-nimbus,
They settled, and leisurely floated away,
Above the cracked castle, and is’s quarreling mortals,
Over the cottage, and off far away,
Down the long valley, across the great forest,
His long-lost first family calling beneath,
And finally back to the great slate slick stone mountains,
And a Boggle’s true home, Oh so high in the peaks...

And they say to this day, that high up in the sky-line,
The braver of souls that dare venture so wide,
Have seen Boggle and best friend happily playing,
Hide and seek, Postman’s knock, Tiggy on high,
And frequently most of his family come calling,
To freshen his memory, and tickle him glad,
He’s happy with family such as he finds them,
But poor Boggle , he still smells very bad.