Just go to www.thelivingimpaired.deviantart.com if you still care.

THE BLUE WITCH

Alastair Skerman

In the darkest tree of the darkest wood,

In the darkest root, there you should

Find a home of rocks, mud and stone,

And under the fireplace piles of bone.

Do not be fearful or weak of heart,

For I’m about to tell you the interesting part.

That place of skulls and hanging limbs,

Was once the home of a thousand sins,

Where a girl of age would wage her potions,

(And sometimes even cleansing skin lotions)

In order to cause as much distress,

As one person can without much mess.

Her name was spoken for miles around,

‘The Blue Witch’ was a common sound.

She turned people to beasts,

And angered the chiefs.

She resurrected demons,

And ruined the sermons.

She denied them the rain,

And caused them much pain.

She killed of the children,

And cooked them in cauldrons.

She demonized pets,

And pissed off the vets.

She arranged tornadoes,

And made people grow toes.

She laughed in their faces,

Where they sobbed in their places.

‘One thousand pounds!’ the Mayor decried,

‘For the head of this venomous demon inside

The darkest tree of the darkest wood.

Kill her ourselves, we honestly could,

But we’d rather you did it instead of ourselves,

For you’ve got fancy armour and plenty of spells.’

Scores of warriors came from miles around,

And against that dark tree they swords did pound.

One by one they marched to her den,

And one by one they weren’t seen again.

It seemed that the people were doomed for all time,

Until one night as they gobbled their wine,

A figure arose from the gathering mist

And without a word he gave them the gist

By holding an axe over his muscular shoulders

(The kind of which would shatter boulders).

‘My name is Sir Lawrence and I will rid you,

Of this beast in you woods, and so I bid you

Farewell, and you had better have the money

Or suddenly I won’t be so flowers and honey.’

The Mayor agreed with a fluttering wave,

And arranged for an extra oversized grave.

With proud, handsome steps the warrior marched

Towards the witch, and his axe did arch

And land against the darkest tree,

Shattering wood from her to Paris.

As the dust settled, he peered inside,

When out of the gloom and to his right side,

A little young girl dressed in a blue dress,

Spoke to him in a manner of distress:

‘Oh please brave knight, be careful down there – ’

But he chopped her in half without disturbing a hair.

‘Foul witch! How dare you try to trick me!

I am no fool! With a knife you would stick me!

If I hadn’t stopped you I would surely be dead,

So stop looking so horrified with your little head!’

He turned around to walk back in glory,

(Covered in blood and looking quite gory)

When in front of him there stood the Blue Witch

And all he said was: ‘Son of a bitch.’

That night the people got quite a surprise,

When out of the mist and in front of their eyes,

The Blue Witch appeared and dumped off the bodies,

Saying to the masses: ‘A few apologies,

But what that bastard did, well it was just mean.

At least I give them time to stumble and scream.

I quit from the business, you’ll be glad to know.’

And so jumped on her broom with a ‘Silver, hi ho!’

A lesson to all, before you start to complain:

Just because they are handsome, doesn’t mean they’ve got brains.

SCARECROW VICTIM NO. 1

Alastair Skerman

In a little village on a little hill,

In a little street too, if you will,

Sat a house so sweet and warm

Of pretty things and aesthetics norm.

There lived a some nice unassuming folk,

Of pretty faces and nice words they spoke.

The only daughter, by the name of Jill,

Was happy there upon that little hill.

She was of that age to look at boys,

But she preferred to play with her toys.

She was pretty enough, and was not shy,

But those awkward stages just passed her by.

Her parents did not know how to act,

To be happy or worried, the will they lacked.

So they left her to play with her little joys,

And she never once thought of those silly boys.

At least so everyone thought, including herself,

But things should not be bottled and left on the shelf.

As days flew by and play things grew

She started wandering how she knew

That something just wasn’t right.

Nothing seemed wrong, the days were bright,

And she was in perfect human health.

But someone knew she was not herself.

He stood on the hill and watched her live,

With a sewn up mouth a grin would give.

The ragged figure had found his game,

The fact there weren’t witnesses was a dreadful shame.

One night at roughly ten past two,

As the moon did shine and the grass it grew,

The girl she lay in restless sleep,

Having given up of counting sheep,

When through the window came a voice,

Young and inviting, and gave her choice.

‘Why are you happy to live in such cages?

Why not come with me to sample the ages?’

She looked out the window and saw out by the field,

What looked just like a boy, and her heart it reeled.

What was this sense of mysterious adventure

Of gambling rush that suddenly swept her?

‘Who are you?’ she asked, still smart enough to know,

That a normal boy does not go round and yell at girls’ windows.

‘Come down and I shall tell you!’ The figure it did promise,

And the poor pretty young lass, thought of him as honest.

As the girl crept through her polished doors,

As her parents slept and let out snores,

A monster waited in the breeze,

Watching as the girl did freeze

In the cold of night and the rushing air,

When suddenly the girl got quite a scare.

There was no boy of features neat,

Of flowing hair and eyes a treat,

But rather a man made of cloth and stitches,

And pointy hands that belonged to witches.

‘Terribly sorry,’ he said, ‘To disappoint

But you must understand there was a point

To get you here where no one can save you

Because, of course, my stomach craves you.’

And he lurched forwards with stick-thin limbs,

And her scream was lost against the winds.

In the morning there was no trace

Of either the girl or the man with the face

With a sewn up grin and dark empty eyes.

The media told of various lies,

Such as kidnapping, but none were close

To the thing of which they feared the most.

A farmer told a few nights later,

That one night he had slept a little fainter

And he had seen a patchwork man,

Walking with a girl, hand in hand.

But there was a fact he never stated:

The girl had been decapitated.

THE SCARECROW

Alastair Skerman

Upon a field, when the sun was low,

Where corn would without question grow,

A man hung propped by bits of wood

And in makeshift hay and rags he stood.

A sewn up smile played across his face,

Eternally mocking the human race

In all its futility, pain and obsession.

In watching you learn a valuable lesson.

It had not darkened in the sky

When a traveller came, just walking by,

And stood right next to the man on wood.

He himself wore a dark black hood,

And with bone-white fingers held a scythe,

The style of which would end a life.

They stood together, like the start of a joke,

And just before night came, the man in robes spoke.

‘I am tired,’ he said, ‘Of all this life,

It makes me weary and full of strife.’

His voice was deep and filled with age,

His eyes glowing in their dark empty cave.

Tired of having a one-sided talk,

He decided to let the poor creature walk.

The ragged man looked up from his trance

And grinned at his company as his eyes they did dance.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ His stitched mouth began

And the man in robes formulated a plan.

‘How would you fancy,’ he calculatedly said,

‘Instead of scaring crows, doing my job instead?

There isn’t much pay and the hours are long

But it’s a good sense of duty and it won’t do you wrong.’

A deal was then struck on the top of that land,

And the scythe was passed from old hand to hand.

As the traveller left, disappearing to air,

The stitched man was cut free of despair.

The creation of man looked down on its father

And saw all the people that he would just rather

See hung on a post just like he had for years

And see how much they enjoyed shedding no tears.

He stood on the earth and looked at the sun.

‘At last I finally get to have fun.’

MASKED STUART

Alastair Skerman

There was a young boy who lived with a mask,

Hiding from sight, yet the people would ask,

‘Oh simply young Stu,’ (for that was his name)

‘Why wear that mask? It only brings shame.’

Stu would not answer and passed straight on by

For the words would more than not make him cry.

Why were they cruel for such a harmless contraption?

It was not as if he followed by homicidal action.

He would lie in his bed, the only place ever

He would take off his mask with its musky old leather,

Determined to work and live and lead a good life,

To found a fine business and find a good wife.

He once told this to his guardian, an honest old farmer,

Who laughed at his dreams and thought it some drama,

And Stu did not blame him for a face such as his

Would certainly not grant a voluntary kiss.

It was the same every day until one fateful July,

When the summer was hot and the boy he did lie

To the farmer in order to go down to town,

As the circus was in, and a world famous clown

Was being said to perform for this night alone

And Stu was in need of his wild carefree tone.

He donned his mask and stole away in the night

High in his hopes without a single shred of fright.

Stu never saw that world famous clown that day

Or any other, for that matter I could say.

He was on his way, taking a shortcut through the woods,

Ignorant and in one of his young hopeful moods,

Whistling along and kicking up the leaves

When out of the shadows sprout a large group of thieves.

‘What have we got here?’ The biggest one said,

‘A little young freak. He deserves to be dead,

Just look at that mask. Imagine, if you can,

He must have a face of a beast and not of a man!’

All the others did laugh like drugged lunatics

Although in their vile sick heads they were thinking of tricks

To beat poor young Stuart down to nothing but dust,

Take all his money and leave him to rust.

Stu was quite sick, but not of a disease.

He was tired of men just doing as they pleased.

Insulting and beating, the thieves they did kick,

But unluckily for them it caused his to click.

He grabbed a man and bit down hard,

Teeth tearing through his mask as if it were lard.

He tore with his fingers and roared with his heart,

The men running and screaming but just playing a part

In Stu’s own violent game, and since he’d changed in a glance,

These vile hopeless fools didn’t stand a chance.

The leaves were soaked in red and the air was thick

With the scent of the dead and not of the sick.

Masked Stu was cleared of his anger and rage,

And within that moment he had grown of an age

When he knew that the world didn’t have to own him,

He would own the world and take away whim.

He disappeared soon after, so oddly enough.

Perhaps he came across someone who was simply too tough.

But I can’t help but thinking perhaps he’s still at large

And taking his vengeance with his heart-filled charge.

But deep down inside, I know he can still wish,

For that dream of a simple voluntary kiss.

THE PIG DOCTOR

Alastair Skerman

There was once a man who known through the lands,

As a master of biology, of organs and of glands,

And who had been awarded the prestigious Nobel Prize

For a way of organ transfer that he happened to devise.

He used the organs of pigs, you see,

Those noble stinky swine,

And figured a way to transfer the flesh,

So the patient would wake up just fine.

He cured so many diseases he was hailed a saint,

From cancer to Alzheimer’s, and even a severe faint.

There was nothing this man and his piggy ways

Couldn’t solve within a few working days.

But there was one aspect he didn’t presume,

Which was that his pets had been able to talk.

They didn’t like the idea of loaning their parts

For people who liked to devour on pork.

So they decided unanimously that they would devise,

A way to teach him a lesson, and steal his Nobel Prize.

They worked all hours through the silent night,

Giggling here and there, imagining his fright,

When he would wake up the next morning, looking for his wig,

To find when looked the mirror, he was in fact half pig.

No one ever heard from him after that night,

Although there have been sightings here and there,

Of a man with a snout and a curly tail,

But when you see him you’d better beware,

For the pigs went too far and altered his brain

So when he travels he thinks of one thought:

‘I do wonder how it would taste…

To try some tender, human-style pork.’

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

This is a story of Jeremy Tart,

Whose life did not begin with a regular start.

In fact the events which took place in his life

Where cut up and torn, as if with a knife.

So as a result of this heinous criminality

Mr. Lemon Tart lost the sense of familiarity.

He forgot when he was born and remembered his demise,

And the fact he had been married was of complete surprise.

His memories were clearly, horribly mixed

That the poor man decided he would get them fixed.

So Jeremy Tart hired a cheap professional

To write down as he spoke: a morose confessional.

‘To those who read this,’ it sombrely began,

‘I find that my days are devoid of much plan.

I wander and think and try with my might

But any order of events must have discovered their flight

For I know not what happened on July the Fifth

And my first relationship is no more than a myth.’

He paced all day long speaking fact after fact

Till the unhappy writer thought of no sense in this act.

He gingerly spoke: ‘Sir, if I may…

I do not wish to cause any delay,

But all of these words… do you really intend

To drive all your readers completely round the bend?

There seems to be no end to your profound confusion

But I think the problem is that you are in illusion.’

‘Illusion?’ Tart cried with new found disgust,

‘Are you saying my mind is clouded with dust?

I may have had my life all a-turned

But that does mean I will stand being burned

By a cheap no-hopes writer with a terrible suit.

I assure you completely your point is quite moot.’

So without much delay Tart’s tired young guest

Left the old house like an unwanted pest,

Leaving poor Mr. Tart alone with no thoughts,

In his orangey, flowery Hawaiian-made shorts.

Alastair Skerman

Georgey Peorgey barrel and lead,

Kissed the girls then shot them dead.

When the men in white coats came out to play,

Georgey Peorgey gunned them away.

They chased him through cities and even a town,

But Georgey Peorgey would not go down.

He gunned away ladies and gunned away men,

And refused to put them together again.

‘Oh, when will it end?’ The people all said,

As they lay away sleepless in their cosy beds.

No matter how much was spent or how hard they lied,

Georgey Peorgey he would not be tried.

But while Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pale of water,

Georgey Peorgey closed in fast to make their lives much shorter.

But Jill had known of his evil plan,

And waited and waited while filling her pan.

He came with a strike not unlike a giant,

But he didn’t expect children to be so defiant.

Jill swung with her pan and hit Georgey down,

And he would lie forever with that confused frown.

The people all cheered and cried out for Jill,

‘Hooray for winning on that fateful hill!’

They threw at her roses and many a treat,

While Jack felt quite cheated alone at her feet.

So Jack travelled far to a land known as Wales,

Where anything can be found in those sinister sales.

He tracked down a man in those dark cloudy scenes,

Who promised fantastical, magical beans.

Jack knew of their power and made quite a deal,

Pretending to think the beans were not real.

He planted them quickly and waited all night,

While Jill was out partying with that tank top so tight.

She couldn’t have known what fate would befall her,

As she woke with a hangover while the giant, so taller,

Made his way down after hearing from Jack,

How Jill had forgotten him, and gave him some slack.

‘Fee figh fo fum, I smell the blood of an ungrateful tart.’

Was how the giant would so gallantly start.

And before Jill had eaten and after she showered,

The little young lass was untimely devoured.

‘Oh what shall we do?’ The people all cried.

‘These fairy tale people have so sense of pride!’

But lucky to them, a hero would solve all their woe,

For he was a boy known as Pinocchio.

For even such a boy that was made out of wood,

Had just managed to kill old Red Riding Hood.

He had tired of morals, and unwanted tales,

Of children with hearts and witches with nails.

So one by one, all creatures did vanish,

While Pinocchio acted well, and learnt some fine Spanish.

But then came the day when he met his arch numpty:

A nasty old brute by the name of Humpty Dumpty.

Their battle would wage for a day and a year,

As the public all watched and shed a small tear

For the small wooden boy was seeming to lose,

And had already lost his nice wooden shoes.

Humpty said: ‘For your life you must beg!’

But the honourable boy would not bow to this egg.

With a final act of strength he rose from the ground,

And Humpty emitted a terrible sound.

His shell had been broken, his gook was now seeping,

He cried at the pain, and would not stop weeping.

Pinocchio decided there was only one way to go,

And picked up an axe for the final good blow.

That day we will remember, oh sir you can bet,

For we all had a slice of that fine omelette.

And we were so glad they had now all gone South,

Even old Pochi, who put a gun in his mouth.

So let that be a lesson, for all of our sons,

That everything can be settled with the use of our guns.

Alastair Skerman

Sorry it took a while, i was feeling lazy. My birthday is in a week after all. (yay)

read me foo’