Grace thinks she's a magical being. |
Once a woman who lived out in east Arkansas, had a want for odd like gnawing opossum paw. Now good Grace--she thought that she could amaze. She would wield a wand till the crack of dawn; Grace believed in magical ways. Brownies-Sylphs-Medusa-Unicorns-Lorelei; Grace fancied such beings--thought she’d give it a try. So Ms Grace imagined mystical days. She conjured a spell, (real as she could tell); Grace believed in magical ways. Past her paltry cabin in Gnome's Woods near a creek, Grace addressed the sycamores expecting tree-speak. But then Grace became a little let down. She rapped the trunk--her stately ego shrunk; Grace displayed a bit of a frown. Grace returned to cabin with her stomach in knots, lots of quaint enchanting hovered high in her thoughts. And so Grace realized what she had to do. She made a doll with taro root and shawl; Grace would try her hand at voodoo. Morsels of hog jowls and fat back fell from her lips; Grace ran out of stick pins so she used her Q-Tips. Thus good Grace practiced from right on the couch. She pierced fervently (once she jabbed her knee); Magic was no match for the ouch. Then a rugged camper showed up holding his side; Magic opened her one door, the camper wide-eyed. “Can you help me please? I’m in pain,” he rightly said; Grace turned, put away the doll, her countenance red. And so Grace learned that it just doesn’t pay. Voodoo pained the man (good old Camper Dan); Grace put thoughts of magic away. 32 Lines Writer’s Cramp 12-7-14 _______ Rhythm: (12-12-10-10-8) Last Stanza: (12-12-12-12-10-10-8) |