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A communication received by elf-mail via the aether to sonmi whilst she slept this afternoon upon the Cloud, from some form of sidhe-type creature she presumes, (sylphs and the like are known for their keening towards strange folk and wraiths, who live in the wilderness, caves or up on the moors and mountainous regions, and also write very poor, somewhat crude poetry. Very good at knitting mind you.). 

 

The Wraith of the Mountains

When I’m low and feeling blue,
I sneak a cheeky peek at you.
I don my ninja pants and cape,
And shimmy up your fire escape.

I know your beard is full of pens,
(More affectation – less than trend),
There’s biros, pilots, quills and fountains,
Miniature mounds of hairy mountains.

It cheers me up to see your mug,
(You don’t look like a Toby Jug),
More like a Heathcliff, pale and strong,
Up on’t’ moors versed in English tongue.

And should you end up like Count Orlok,
I’ll still be peeking through your door lock,
To catch a glimpse, (failing eyes permit)…
Of an ancient, handsome, freaky, hermit.

 

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