small and thready
smells mousy
unhearthed, derelict,
crawled into the husk
of his unself
like a chrysalis
his pin-heart flittering
in the grimy webbing
dry and seeming dead
poke him with a twig
and he lunges chittering
like an angry rat
that sort of carry-on
and scrape
beware his stale teeth
like yellow needles
the foam at the corner
of his lips
carries rabies
beware his foxed
and moulting skin
his liver-spotted fingers
can still bind you
to paths you do not
understand understand
there is no cure
for this poor excuse
for a myth
no tisane no remedy
for his latter-day
uselessness
shuffle him into a matchbox
and take him to
the midden witch
little goblin little sweep
gently gently
she will sing him to sleep
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