An Oddly Dark Ditty.

As Tom lay sleeping in his bed

A lady came and crushed his head

With talons sharp and molars red

And sucked his brains ’till he was dead

Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea where that came from. I think I might have discovered a new tenant lurking in my box of personalities, finally creeping out from under that damp corner where the stain is, the one that might be ketchup, or it might be cranberry juice, or it might be blood; the corner that has a squidgy, smelly, mildewed piece of festering cardboard behind it.

Then again, it might have been inspired by the white something-or-other that I thought I saw disappearing under my bed when I went into the bedroom earlier

… or the little bright lights in the hedgerow that I see out of the corner of my eye, only to find them gone when I look directly

… or it might be Mad Mrs Rochester’s legacy, bless her loony latin locks

… or I might just be bored

Whatever. Rejection beckons, so why worry?