The Koockaroo

The black woods beckon,
I heed the call.

I enter there,
Where the timber is tall.

A place known by myth and legend too,
Tis the roost of the Koockaroo.

The Koockaroo,
Evil with bloody goo,

Sweeps out the trees,
With talons drew.

Impaling and incising,
Piece by piece,

Making me a part,
Of his evening feast.

I raise my sword,
Against the Koockaroo,

But before I can fight,
He runs me through,

With his talons,
Those daggers of death,

He drew me near,
Smelling his fettered breath.

As I greeted the hour of my end,

He stared, and he scowled,
Seeing that I was all done in.

And dropped me to the ground,
And life again,

With a grizzled hollow voice,
The Koockaroo spake.

"These are my lands, this is my stake."
"These black woods, you will never take."

Bloodied and battered,
Ragged and tattered,

I ran for respite and home,
Vowing to never speak of this again,
Lest the Koockaroo come.




Poetry by W. Burkholder
Read 419 times
Written on 2007-03-03 at 18:45

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