For centuries now

cub scouts

have shat their kegs & pants

& made their sleeping bags damp

& occasionally this yarn plays an arm.






It's the story of a headless

spooky ghost poem

that haunts in a wood on a hill

& might be called Graham (!) or Phil (!)

- already the spine starts to chill.






Apparently he was once a sonnet

& sometimes even attended church

but inevitably he grew tired

of muffled yawns & doe eyed sighs

so he sold his soul to the evil

BOLLOCKS VERSE.






When the other poems in the village found out

there was outrage

so they hunted him down

& roped him to a tree

before dousing him in petrol

& setting him alight

with a lighter

in the hope that he's horribly die

& leave them be.






However

their good plan sadly failed

as in wraith-form 

that wicked poem prevailed

- don't ask me why he's headless

that bit must have come later

but that wood's haunted as shite now

& the source of a vaguely scary tale

...