Goblin Poetry

Ask a goblin, ask a ghost,

And you’ll find they love to boast

About what it is they do most with their time.

They may say hiccupping for hours

Or maybe trampling on your flowers,

But really, all their power lies in rhyme.

It could be Sonnet Number Six

Or a limerick about Styx

Or most often just a random mix of styles.

Form and meter do not matter;

They’ll make it longer, shorter, fatter,

And the iambs they will scatter round for miles.

As for subjects, they do more

Than just love and trees and war,

For they feel these things are boring bits of tripe.

Instead they write about tea pots,

Scarves and slime and snouts and spots

And pineapples, both rotten and unripe.

Now I feel that I should mention

They do all this with intention.

What exactly are their inventions meant

For? They write to hopefully engage

A sense of chaos and enrage

Those of nongoblinical persuasion or descent.

They tweak the org’nization

And poetic combination

To cause maximum frustration and distress.

Chaotic thirst cannot be sated

Till they’re sure that they’ve created

An addlepated,

Mutilated,

Torn apart and fumigated,

Schemed and planned and orchestrated mess.