There’s a fairy in my garden patch
Her manners are most foul
She throws rockses through my window
And plucks featherses from my owl.
My owl’s name is Beatrice
And she’s quite a precious thing
She likes to sit ‘neath my window
And all the day she likes to sing.
But that fairy tortures my owl
And there’s never a moment’s peace
She takes the feathers she plucked yesterday
And pastes them back with grease.
I’m growing tired of that fairy
And I fear I may do her some harm
If she doesn’t stop throwing rockses
I just might chop off her arm.
Text © C.M. Blackwood 2016