An entry for the UC Ficathon. Theme: I've Got a Secret.
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Gather round, children, this bleak 'Hallow's eve,
I'm tellin' tales, gotta few up my sleeve.
So hunker down and listen, pumpkin-heads,
To one 'bout The Grocer, The Lady, some beds.
T'ween these two it'll scare ya to be learnin,'
All 'bout strange loin-longin' and churnin.'
Which began one morn' when The Grocer awoke
Surprised to find his four-poster broke.
He went then to the shop of The Lady
Whose furniture is charming, not shady.
A sleigh-bed he spied there quick-took his fancy,
And though bargaining was clearly chancy,
Named a price so low it was insultin'!
So umbrage took The Lady, her ire molten!
And, as back and forth competing prices flew,
Lustful flames fanned and grew 'twixt the two.
And sure as my pipe'll never be lit,
So no one need know about their randy visit.
Nor that, regular, on Tuesdays at four
Each emerges from the backroom, quite sore.
Now this next's a sad one, sorry to say,
'Bout that doe-eyed, lonely, Divorcee.
For years and years she's hankered for one
Who won't remember their under-bleecher fun.
Bitter is she, for that memory's romantic,
And he's picked another---flashy and pedantic!
So late one night, sippin' beer from a sack,
She trudged through town, alas and alack.
Intent on ending it all most dramatic
(She passed his diner on automatic)
Not knowing she was being followed then,
By one as lonely, a soon-to-be friend,
She found herself teetering on the old bridge,
(scared me more than my kidnappin' did!)
When out called one Lowly Dishwasher, "Stop!"
She turned to see him, (he stood with his mop.)
She blubbered big wet tears, her heart broken,
And reached out for him, not a word spoken.
Now pumpkins are grinning, leaves a'prancin,'
As The Divorcee and lover go salsa dancin.'
One last fable from a most weary gnome,
Then after tricks and treats, you must go home.
This last is about the grimmest of downfalls,
A true-crime story not destined for mothballs.
It concerns the fate of one Eastside Tilly,
Whose gossip mongering was far from silly.
She went too far the day she spilled the beans
About the Town Loner, his life, his dreams.
Tilly blabbed his tale and named his name,
And it must be said that he's not the same.
Nor is Tilly, I'm afraid to say,
For up at the graveyard she now must lay.
Though one can't rule out natural causes,
Town Loner gives us all shudders and pauses.
But he's the one who'll chatter with fright,
And cry with regret, his hair gone white.
For if one dies on All 'Hallow's Eve,
One must haunt the earth and never leave.
Though Pierpont's story may ring hollow,
Be careful who it is leading you follow.
For Tilly's haunting and seeking scandal yet
(All sure to turn up on The WB, you bet.)
But this little gnome's sleepy, so farewell,
I'm takin' off before Amy gives me hell!