The Goblin Under the Stair

When I was seven, or maybe eight
My father left when my mother died,
He said he'd take me when he came back,
He said he would, but my father lied!

I went to live in the Bailiwick
Of Nether Dearth, in a Castle there,
And every night as the clock did tick
I heard the Goblin, under the stair.

He'd rasp his nails on the old stone wall
And make the stairs in the passage creak,
And then he'd let out a tiny moan
While I lay trembling under the sheet!

I'd gone to live with a maiden Aunt
Who kept a dwarf as a servant there,
His name was Hob, and he'd say: ‘I can't! '
Whatever we asked; ‘It's just not fair! '

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Cavalier

He'd wandered into the party through
The French Doors, facing the lake,
Was vague, and missing a bob or two,
Perhaps he'd made a mistake?
Taken a left at the crossroads where
The kids had hidden the sign,
Instead of a right to the Graham's house,
I'd ask him, given the time.

The party was getting out of hand
The punch was spiked with gin,
And vodka and tequila and…
God knows what else was in!
For Jane was down to her underwear
While Pat fell down in a heap,
And Margaret danced on the table while
Her kids were sound asleep.

The clock in the hall struck midnight then
And I was getting tired,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Dragons

In the year of the Jade Emperor,
In the time of the people’s pain,
The sun was hot, the people groaned
The sky gave up no rain;
‘The sky gave up no rain, ’ he said,
‘The ground was dry as a bone,
There were no rivers or lakes to feed
The crops that the people owned.
The rice lay waste in the paddy fields,
The people ate bark and clay,
While on the shores of the Eastern Sea
Four dragons laughed and played.’

‘These creatures, made of snake and claw,
Of horn, and fire and scale,
Looked down to see the people pray,
To hear the people wail,
So Black, and Yellow, Long and Pearl,
For these were the dragons’ names,
Felt sad for the people’s plight, and said,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Barge and the Bride

I was having a meal, steak egg and chips
At the Humpty Dumpty Inn,
Next to the Curly-Wyrley Cut
Where the Curly bits begin,
When I heard a shout from a passing barge
‘You'd better duck! ' it said,
Then the bone from a monster ham flew up
And it hit me in the head!

I fell to the crazy paving, gathered
My wits, and looked around,
And there was Joe on the ‘Autumn Queen'
With his daughter, Maggie Browne,
He'd said something to stir her blood
And she'd thrown the bone at him,
But missed - and always the lucky one,
I'd caught it on the chin!

‘I'll get you back for this, ' I yelled,
And I shook my fist at her,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Dragon Ring

I'd been courting my Fiona
For a year or two, to date,
We'd been through the lovers' gridlock,
Love, indifference, and hate,
On a good day we'd be soaring,
On a bad day we'd descend
To the pit of constant warring,
Though we'd make up, in the end!

And the making up was endless,
It was better than the best,
We would spend the day exploring
In our less than virgin nest,
And she'd cry for Mother Mary
At that last, and parting thrust,
When she saw my eyes adoring
At the zenith of our lust!

Then the day came when Fiona
Said she needed her own space,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Pengellen

Each winter the grey-greying streets of Pengellen
Fall silent as dampness creeps in at the hearth,
And miners and men speak in whispers of heaven,
Of darkness and penance, of copper and dearth.

No children are seen on the streets of Pengellen,
Each wife fears her shadow, and hurries inside,
While mirrors have long been discarded, forgotten
That no man may see what his God may decide.

For so it was once that the men of Pengellen
Were busy and purposeful, masters of time,
The wealth that they won taught that greed was forgiven
Though every man feared, and was ruled by the mine.

For deep in the earth with a pick or a chisel,
A shovel, an oath in a gaelic discourse,
They quarried the bowels of some God-awful midden
To pile the green copper in place of the gorse.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Peter Pan

He'd buried his head in manuscripts
And books for twenty years,
He'd kept himself to himself had never
Ventured down the stairs,
His meals were brought on a silver tray
His clothes were laundered and pressed,
No callers came to his stately rooms
To invade his hours of rest.

He'd turned his back on the world out there
When young, and his sister went,
His parents left the estate to him
Though most of the money was spent,
He had no interest in state affairs,
No more in the works of man,
Looked rarely out of the windows
Of his mansion, Maison Grande.

He studied the force of nature,
Tempests, storms, tornado files,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Godwake

He stretched himself slowly
And rubbed at his eyes,
Rolled over and got to his feet,
His breastplate was rusty, the straps and the eyes
Had mouldered while he was asleep,
And on the horizon, though barely awake
The sun struggled over the hill,
It gleamed on the droplets of dew on the grass
As the figure stood listening and still.

His eyes, they looked puzzled
His visage was grim,
He looked for the pillars of home,
And where were the votaries praying to him,
The Standards, the Legions of Rome?
And where were the barracks, the stables, the mess,
The clash of the soldiers within?
The silence of centuries caught at his ears
And the meadows lay, fallow and green.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Strangers in Time

I'll ever remember the day she left
In a storm, I was so unkind,
I'd hurled the dinner right over her head
At the wall, and it blew her mind!
‘That's it! ' she muttered, and grabbed her bag
Went sailing out of the door,
With never a backward glance at me
Or our lives, forever more!

I sat for a week, just waited, thinking
Soon she'll be coming home,
Sat in the dark and hated, loved,
Then thought I'd better atone,
So I took to the streets, her mother's house
But of her, there wasn't a trace,
I tried her sister and brother's homes
And they slammed the door in my face.

Louise had walked right out of my life
And she wouldn't be coming back,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Big Mack

I have always been a trucker
I was raised on diesel fumes,
And I smoked two packs of Lucky's
From daybreak to afternoons,
While I ate at roadside diners
From a plate that swam in grease,
And I downed two mugs of coffees
In my cab, the one I leased.

My Big Mack, my eighteen-wheeler
I once drove through western plains,
Then I hauled hogs out of Denver
And I shuttled freight to Maine,
And I kept my eyes wide open
As I popped those purple hearts,
I could feel my heart keep pounding
As I rolled beneath the stars.

It's a great and grand old country
From New York to Idaho,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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