This figure slowly walked towards me
Across the white frosted village green,
The hairs on my neck quickly rising;
On that frosty grass not a footprint seen.
He suddenly turned
As though spun around
And I noticed then his feet
Didn't touch the ground.
There was s shimmering
In that clear frosty cold air
And before my very eyes
He was no longer there.
I shot into the my local pub
Laughed as I told the bar bloke,
Hiding my fear by trying
To tell it as a poor joke.
He said it doesn't happen often.
This time of year is the most
When the old village squire,
Or rather his shade or ghost,
Retraces the footsteps he made
On his final tragic walk.
He was never seen again.
You can imagine the talk.
He was found that Christmas morning
His face locked in a ghastly grin
And scattered around his feet
Five bottles emptied of their gin.
He walks the village on occasion
Crossing the frozen green first
Looking for a way
To slake his raging thirst.
The village sadly missed him,
Particularly the boozers in here,
Cos every Saturday evening
He paid for their every beer.
I mean ok if he had to kill himself
That's every man's right
But surely he could have waited
Till after Saturday night.
He shook his head sadly
Said he felt sorry for the old clown
But business is business you know
And for months takings had been down