small and thready
      smells mousy

unhearthed, derelict,
      crawled into the husk

of his unself
      like a chrysalis

his pin-heart flittering
      in the grimy webbing

dry and seeming dead
      poke him with a twig

and he lunges chittering
      like an angry rat

that sort of carry-on
      and scrape

beware his stale teeth
      like yellow needles

the foam at the corner
      of his lips

carries rabies
      beware his foxed

and moulting skin
      his liver-spotted fingers

can still bind you
      to paths you do not

understand   understand
      there is no cure

for this poor excuse
      for a myth

no tisane no remedy
      for his latter-day

uselessness
      shuffle him into a matchbox

and take him to
      the midden witch

little goblin little sweep
      gently gently

she will sing him to sleep

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