Fairweather Friend
A/N: I've done a few poems before but this is my first attempt at BtVS poetry so it may suck. Be gentle, I bruise easily from bad reviews. This is a poem about Drusilla and her eerie relationship with her treasured doll, Miss Edith.
She watches me with her festering eyes
As pretty as slaughtered lambs
Their ghosts prancing on barbed wire
Gaping onyx hollows; doeful and filled with sweet songs
Singing symphonies of blood and choirboys
All waltzing to float and crash on my ears
And burn on a glorious funeral pyre.
She whispers of the moon's prayer
And gives me black roses with my tea, ripe with death.
We laugh together; our noses filled with the raw, wicked smell,
The stench of funerals tickling us black and blue
I give her buttered bread and crumpets
As she divulges all shrouded secrets and oaths
And I watch the sparks of fireworks fly, dazzle and burn
At all my grand, lovely parties.
She is a wicked friend, all gossip and temper
But she doesn't backchat her Mummy, she's too good a girl
She doesn't want a spanking for rudeness; poor thing
Polite in front of guests, always minding the daisies
And filling Mummy's mind with such pretty darkness and chaos.
But she changes like the black wind, gentle and howling
All rough and tender, spiteful and compassionate
Speaking out of turn at tea just to see blooded poppies grow in my cheeks
Naughty and misbehaving, driving thorns into my side
Only a happy lady when all is well but turns horrid and wicked
At the throw of a dice, when all goes to purest hell
Blazing flames and tiring violence for Mummy
And she stands, smiles like a good girl but does nothing
She isn't my companion when tempests rage and the moon turns scarlet.
She drove all the bright birds away with her tiresome fussing,
Daddy ran to dusty cloisters of churches,
Grandmummy was burnt until she was warm again,
And my champion Spike forgot all about his princess
All my new, murderous family groaned and decayed
When my nasty friend, tea in hand, clicked her fingers
Striking their sparks out of my plays and games.
And she still smiles when I scold and punish her with branding irons
And all the things that sing, spit and scream
Because I keep her by my side still
As constant as the gossiping moon.
Miss Edith, the silly goose!
My fairweather friend
My only friend.
A/N: I've done a few poems before but this is my first attempt at BtVS poetry so it may suck. Be gentle, I bruise easily from bad reviews. This is a poem about Drusilla and her eerie relationship with her treasured doll, Miss Edith.
She watches me with her festering eyes
As pretty as slaughtered lambs
Their ghosts prancing on barbed wire
Gaping onyx hollows; doeful and filled with sweet songs
Singing symphonies of blood and choirboys
All waltzing to float and crash on my ears
And burn on a glorious funeral pyre.
She whispers of the moon's prayer
And gives me black roses with my tea, ripe with death.
We laugh together; our noses filled with the raw, wicked smell,
The stench of funerals tickling us black and blue
I give her buttered bread and crumpets
As she divulges all shrouded secrets and oaths
And I watch the sparks of fireworks fly, dazzle and burn
At all my grand, lovely parties.
She is a wicked friend, all gossip and temper
But she doesn't backchat her Mummy, she's too good a girl
She doesn't want a spanking for rudeness; poor thing
Polite in front of guests, always minding the daisies
And filling Mummy's mind with such pretty darkness and chaos.
But she changes like the black wind, gentle and howling
All rough and tender, spiteful and compassionate
Speaking out of turn at tea just to see blooded poppies grow in my cheeks
Naughty and misbehaving, driving thorns into my side
Only a happy lady when all is well but turns horrid and wicked
At the throw of a dice, when all goes to purest hell
Blazing flames and tiring violence for Mummy
And she stands, smiles like a good girl but does nothing
She isn't my companion when tempests rage and the moon turns scarlet.
She drove all the bright birds away with her tiresome fussing,
Daddy ran to dusty cloisters of churches,
Grandmummy was burnt until she was warm again,
And my champion Spike forgot all about his princess
All my new, murderous family groaned and decayed
When my nasty friend, tea in hand, clicked her fingers
Striking their sparks out of my plays and games.
And she still smiles when I scold and punish her with branding irons
And all the things that sing, spit and scream
Because I keep her by my side still
As constant as the gossiping moon.
Miss Edith, the silly goose!
My fairweather friend
My only friend.