Infirmary Rhymes

Poor Tom

It’s warm in the pub, but then comes the rub,
the gaffer tells stories of woe, poor thing.
Tom’s third pint of ale is soured by the tale
of the vanishing maid of York, poor thing.

Soon Tom’s off for home, a tramp through the gloam,
eyes nervously darting about, poor thing.
Cold winds doth howl, a clench in his bowel,
alone on the moor in the dark, poor thing.

His torch is near dead, but light shows ahead,
held high by a maiden who’s lost, poor thing.
She lures Tom off-course through heather and gorse,
and he’s never been seen again, poor thing.

author's note ▼

A dark parody of The North Wind Doth Blow - by Mother Goose