Another poem. These are actually more fun to write than stories, so there will probably be more of these. Not to say I’ve given up on Roland Savage, it’s just these are neat to do. :3
LITTLE MISS LUCY LUCK
Little Miss Lucy Luck had a very rough time, it honestly could be said.
After all she stayed at home, strapped tight to her own bed.
Her parents were the kind of type deep in paranoia,
And all the talk of danger, poor Lucy, it would bore her.
Talk of perverts, murderers, monsters and the insane.
And the things that happen down a dark and empty lane.
For most young people this would scare them straight,
But Little Miss Lucy Luck, these stories she would hate.
She knew that the world outside her room was not so very dark,
For every night she got her visitor, a handsome singing lark.
He spoke of worlds beyond the hills and sights no man could see
He spoke ‘I am but a humble bird, why would I lie to thee?’
Every night she listened close to stories of grand events.
As each day passed she grew more tired of her restrictive old parents.
‘I shall escape!’ she told the lark, pulling at her restraints.
Her parents told her not to for they feared it would cause her faints.
‘Then I shall help,’ the lark told her, so noble and ever so true,
‘I shall bring along friends to help you out, next night at ten past two.’
All the next day she could not wait for her freedom from her prison
And to the new found dangers her parents told, she found she could not listen.
The night drew close and she lay in bed, ready for her escape
And lying still amongst the sheets she vowed to stay awake.
And sure enough, at ten past two the lark came with a guest,
A large dark wolf with orange eyes and a silver coated breast.
Lucy Luck found herself scared and wanted to run and flee,
But against her fears the wolf crept in and tore her restraints free.
‘There you go,’ the lark sang, ‘I have kept my solemn promise,
Now come with me and we shall go to the lands beyond the forest.’
Little Miss Lucy Luck was as happy as could be.
Her life was hers, no more dark tales of murder and treachery.
We come to the time, my honest young readers,
When the moral should now come clear.
And sure enough, when they left the town,
The lark happened to disappear.
‘Oh lark, my friend, where have you gone?’ our brave young heroine called
And found herself alone, and in the trees she was now walled.
The wolf was near with his silver fur and beady orange eyes,
The look of which should have told of a thousand terrible lies.
I would now tell of a gruesome feast where every inch of her was eaten,
But she was not the one to find themselves so humiliatingly beaten.
How do you wonder, my faithful friends, she earned her bizarre name?
The wolf, so foolishly, thought that this was all a game.
A hunter’s axe, discarded so, and almost completely hidden
Was lying near, and just her luck, where she had now just hidden.
‘Come out, come out’ said the wolf, ‘and I shall help you home.
You know how hard it is to find your way when you are all alone…’
Little Miss Lucy Luck decided she wouldn’t turn dead,
And grabbed the axe and swung it fast and planted it in his head.
Where she went from there on in, no one seems to know.
They only found the wolf’s carcass, half eaten in the snow.
I have heard rumours here and there, of a traveller of appearance frail,
But the stories turn to horror tales and the speakers start to wail.
Who’s to blame? I ask myself when I have nothing better to do.
And I come to an answer quite simple, from a really obvious clue.
Parents, a warning to you, before you tuck them in bed,
Do try not to talk of horrors to fill their susceptible head.
Alastair Skerman
