08. Night in Foxdale


Old dark night

Poking about under the trees,

Under the apple trees in the orchard,

An ancient fellow with fleas

That will not let him rest.

Old dark night,

He may have stars in his hair

As a woman jewels might wear,

But his feet are shuffling,

And his nose is snuffling,

His feeble cries are tortured.

The stealthy breeze

Is ruffling

His clothes and making his chest wheeze.

I can feel his teeth bite;

I can hear him stumble and creep

And I cannot sleep.