348 words (1 minute read)

The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids

00:02:03 :: 00:03:00

Open up, children,
your mother is home
with something for each.
My voice is as smooth
as the softest chalk.
Open up, children,
your mother is home
with something for each.
My feet are as white
as fresh-groun flour.
Open up, children,
your mother is home
with something for each.
Under the table
or into the bed,
Mother will find you.
Into the kitchen,
washbasin, cupboard,
Mother will find you.
Tick away, Tik-Tok,
I’m quite satisfied
to lay myself down
all in the tree shade
in green pastures sweet
and dream of the door
left opened wide to
overturned benches,
table and chairs;
the washbasin smashed;
the bedding quite slashed;
you, left to tick, with
a treasure well-stashed.
Some count sheep while I
count kids leaping still
for fear of my dark.
One and Two and Three,
Four and Five and Six.
One and Two and Three,
Four and Five and Six.
Tasty as can be;
one bite, nothing sticks.
One and Two and Three,
Four and Five and Six.
What a powerful
first-waking thirst this;
I sway side-to-side
and every step
clatters and rattles,
rumbles and bumbles
all in my belly.
How did the children
turn into such stones?
I see my fate as 
I bend down to drink,
but this thirst won’t be
ignored; and, so I
do bend down to drink
and accept my fate. 

Next Chapter: Faithful Johannes