Poor Tom

Poor Tom

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

Tom stares at his glass, and ponders the lass
gone missing five decades this night, poor thing.
With stomach gone queer, head swimming in beer,
Tom calls for the gaffer to hush, poor thing.

A voice from the side says ‘son let it ride’,
he lost his sweet love long ago, poor thing.
The gaffer was there, at Darrowby fair
when she made for the moor alone, poor thing.

Her quarrelsome beau, refusing to go,
stayed on drinking bitter regret, poor thing.
She wanders there still, a shade on the hill,
and searches for love evermore, 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: ▼

   

Originally Written for the August 2021 round of Monsters Under the Bed.

An additional three verses were added on April 1st 2025

Prompt: The North Wind Doth Blow

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Monsters Under The Bed - CLOSED  (18+) Nursery Rhymes have taken a dark turn... #2231795 by Quilli ☕

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