…and who doesn’t love a little doom?
Doom that sounds soft like a roaring waterfall.
Doom that looks hideously hilarious in a smock.
Doom so soft to the touch.
Doom smelling of roses and lavender.
Doom that tastes sweet like warm buttermilk--
that sweet taste that smells of acid and fire.
Hexelplex lives in the darkness under beds,
and buttermilk falls sour on his forked tongue.
Why do dragons sport forked tongues?
Why not, instead, spooned tongues?
Tarnations, child!
A beast with a spooned tongue
could never fit under your bed.
But dems is da berries, as they say.
The smoky black dragon of happiness
sleeps softly on his hoard.
Shall I mention the pile of gold and gems,
the bed upon which he soundly sleeps?
He sleeps, he giggles, he bathes, he plays
in deep piles of the lovely lucre.
“But Nanny” the children all ask,
From where does he get his gold?”
“The gold will come from your mouths one day,
My little poppets” I answer.
They all laugh maliciously at the thought.
Make no mistake,
Hexeplex will come from under your bed
and steal the gold fillings from your teeth.
“Asi es la vida.” He will say,
and only your nightstand will see
his bat-like wings shiver as he sneaks.
But the image of his green eyes
will forever burn in the darkness of your dreams.
