He called himself the ghost from hell,
I see through him and I can tell.
He wears a mask on his hidden visage,
Telling the world of a cryptic mirage.

He wanted the Lady to go to hell,
But she stood her ground and bled his well.
He is now ailing and falling apart,
For he refuses to accept matters of the heart.

He demands for music like the food of love,
He cannot bear to look at life Above.
He sits out there in the burrows of hell,
To rot inside the corpse shell.

He needs a lusty damsel for him to sing,
Thirsting for blood that is on his ring.
He needs the music of her voice,
The one she sings because of his device.

But alas!!Out there in the labriynth of hell,
No one knows and no one could tell.
He sat there crying his thirsting heart out,
Only one Soul did hear his mournful shout.

She was the Lady, the warrior Goddess from fire,
To arouse his spirit and satiate his desire.
On the broken English piano she got down and played,
Summoning his past from the lofty everglade.

Shooting each arrow to his defiled soul,
Hoping to bring him back and make him whole.
But all he lusted was blood so bare,
He eyed in her and just everywhere.

She pulled and poked all the ghosts to sing,
She was the one with the eternal ring.
She held him tight and held him close,
She loved him true like the scent from a rose.

Everybody then just joined the choir,
To sing a rendition of Handel’s Messiah.
With soothing music he fed his flock,
And with that himself he in slumber did rock.

For in his mansion and burrows of hell, 
For Lady knew him very well.
She played her fiddle,
Singing Hey Diddle Diddle.

She watched him as he for her did swoon,
For she was his Lady of the full moon.
She governed the seas and had Seven Stars,
Kissing him, carassing him and healing his scars.

For he was not a Ghoul from hell,
But a Soul she knew so very well.
She was his tiger, his light, his fire,
His little sheep, his hearts’ great desire.

By Anisha Achankunju (C) 22nd January 2011