Rag & Reed
John lived down in Haywood Lane
Beside the wood, the river's course
And walked each day to see Bernice
His dark-haired lady, for discourse.
She had a melancholy air
A sad and gloomy way with her
And questioned why life wasn't fair,
John never had much sway with her.
He'd argue through the early hours
And speak his love, implicitly,
But she would snap in anger then,
'Your love won't buy the bread for me.'
For seven years they'd to and fro'd
For she would leave, then ask him back,
While he would sit alone and grieve
At every trait that she'd attack.
She always spoke of breaking up
Of taking time out, making space,
Until the day he called on her
To find that he had been displaced.
A woman answered at the door,
And barred his entry as she spoke,
He'd never seen her face before
She wore a witches hat, and cloak.
'She doesn't want to see you now
She said it's over, go away!
Now we'll be looking after her,
You're finished, done! You've had your day! '
'We've been together seven years, '
He tried to say, but she was gone,
Had slammed the door right in his face
And of Bernice there was no sign.
He phoned her then, when he got back,
The voice that answered wasn't hers,
A grating, rasping voice had said,
'Stop phoning, you have been her curse! '
John asked around the village then
Just who this woman was, and more,
He found out there were two of them
Had moved in just the day before.
The locals said they were well known
Two women from an evil seed,
They played with witchcraft, set their spells,
One called Rag and one called Reed.
They would batten on to weakness
Use their spells to hypnotize,
Said that they'd look after them, then
Move on in and rule their lives.
John sat grieving in his cottage,
Wandered aimless through the wood,
Stalked Bernice's house at night
To try to fathom what he could.
Then one night he saw them, dancing,
In a clearing in the wood,
Chanting spells and laughing, prancing
Calling on old Beelzebub.
'We have brought another convert,
Satan, you must be well pleased!
Send your devils down to take her...'
There was Bernice, on her knees.
On her knees there in the clearing,
Looking dazed, or drugged somehow,
'Send your cohorts down to take her,
See, we make her naked now.'
Then the one called Rag had turned
And torn the gown from off Bernice,
Under it she knelt stark naked,
On all fours, amongst the trees.
John had seen enough, and ran
The tears of grief welled at his eyes,
Pacing in his cottage then
He schemed and planned for their demise.
Cast about and found the items
That would even up the score,
Scoured Junk Shops, bought some hardware,
Saw the farmer Ron Trezore.
Checked the Almanac for April
Marked in red the next full Moon,
Modified his Ghetto Blaster,
Tried recording in his room.
On the night the Moon was rising
Once again he sought the wood,
Hid behind an old oak tree
Beside the clearing, in his hood.
Then at midnight, they came prancing,
They came dancing through the trees,
Dragged along with chains behind them
There he saw his love, Bernice.
Soon they stripped themselves in fervour,
Dancing naked on the green,
Calling on the wily Satan,
Shouting things that were unclean.
Then from out the bushes, roaring,
Came a figure, caked in blood,
Head of sheep and horns of goat,
Satan - in his glory stood!
Rag had yelped and Reed had screamed
And tried to hide their naked forms,
'On all fours, ' the demon growled,
And they had dropped before his horns.
Then he showered them with offal,
Then he poked them, with a stick,
Rag had wailed and Reed threw up
The ghetto blaster did its bit.
Chains and moans and clanking noises
Issued from the speakers there,
Flames burst out from both his hands
And left them both bereft of hair.
Soon the devil walked a circle
Traced them round a ring of fire,
'Should you move before the dawn
I'll take you to your funeral pyre! '
Then he left them, took Bernice
Who came back to his world again,
Marveled at the love he'd shown
And thanked the devil for good men.
The last I heard of Rag and Reed
They worked in some old Nunnery,
Washing dishes, being pious,
Bald on top where hair should be.
John moved in with his Bernice
They never seem to argue now,
Hung right on the mantelpiece
A pair of horns reminds them how.
3 April 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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