The Devisaging of Driftwood Manor


As you walk the streets alone,
List’ning to the gramophones,
Drift your thought not to the plight
Of Mr. Driftwood’s son last night...
A strapping lad of ten and three,
Impossible he would not be -
BUT HE WAS NOT! Abhor this place -
For someone came - REMOVED HIS FACE!
His father came upon the morn,
Speak comfort to his own firstborn -
UNPREPARED! For what he’d seen -
A horror draped in blue and green!
A matted clump of flesh and hair -
SURROUNDING THAT WHICH WAS NOT THERE!
Driftwood fell into a heap,
Carried out to moan and weep -
Sounds too ghastly for to hear,
Drifted out to all mens’ ears -
Never to forget the cry-
Of Driftwood! Right before he died!
His wife, abroad, for matters of state,
Nibbling snacks upon her plate,
Was UNAWARE! And continued to grin -
Oblivious bliss to all that had been!
And in mostly a week, she set sail for home,
Adrift in a steamboat churning up foam,
Expected her not - it gave such a turn -
She came to the manor - EVICTED AND BURNED!
Sobbing and clawing, she fell to her knees,
Blind in her agonisations to see! That
SHE WAS NOT ALONE! But except for her mind!
Blind to the madness that crept up behind!
They found her next morning, curled up in the place,
Where all of her was, yes - except for her face.