Bad Owl Farm [Welsh Shroom Season Campfire Stories #1]

They have bundled poor Oscar
into a horizontal, broken-down,
chest freezer over by the pond…
and Gabriel and Moochly
are perched, upon right
and left corners of the front
(If stood facing the Farmhouse)
… tittering, mischievously,
in-between little merry hoots.

Meanwhile, Oscar hoo isn’t happy,
being extremely claustrophobic,
after the Youth Detention Centre
… is offering quite a logical
and intelligent argument
for his immediate release.

“Fuck him!” declares Mildred
approaching, all wise and shit,
carrying her little bag
of psychic torture implements
(She’s gonna take out her
‘Un-Fucking-Requited’ love
for that cold-hearted Bernard
… upon this convenient fool).

But, they’ve misjudged Oscar,
for he’s not a ‘Fool’, he’s ‘Cute’,
and being ‘Cute’
he has fans and admirers, innit.
And here come a bunch o’em,
silent-as-the-grave (they’re owls)
and organized like something
loosely complicated… but nice.

After the Rescue’s success,
and the ‘bad owls’ have been shot
… Oscar unleashes his ‘Shine’
from within the sacred circle of
The Storyteller’s Standing Stones,
whilst everyone present (not you)
admires the ‘Awe’ and ‘Glory’
… whilst sharing, considerately,
Bramley apples and liberty caps.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.