A new piece from Keith Errington!
Insidious
On the isle of Hopeless, Maine
The weather is always insane
There’s never rhyme nor reason
Pointless is the weathervane
It’s insidious and perplexing
At the very least it’s very vexing
But there’s one peculiar thing
Whether autumn, summer, or spring
A dangerous weirdness does persist
The mist, the mist, the mist.
The Hopeless Maine Scientific Society
(Not known particularly for its propriety)
Has studied the phenomenon
Using tests of great variety
Despite their efforts most fastidious
All they can say is, “Well, it’s insidious”
Their experts are dumbfounded
Astounded and confounded
Even Arkwright the anthropologist
The mist the mist the mist.
It’s a certain kind of fog
That smells of soggy dog
Weird faces lurk within the gloom
Too many to catalogue
There are eyes and things that hum
And things that brush your bum
Dark tendrils reaching out
Taking hair and casting about
Like a demented hairstylist
The mist, the mist, the mist.
It affects your mood and makes you sad
Or melancholic or occasionally glad
But there’s no escaping its devilment
Stay out too long and you’ll go mad
It gets in your hair
And your underwear
Always growing
Always glowing
A cloud with a Lovecraftian twist
The mist, the mist, the mist.
When returning from the Inn
After all the medicinal gin
You’d better watch your step
And make sure that you’re within
For if you are outside
When the mist it does betide
You’d better beware
You’d better take care
Especially if you’re pissed
The mist, the mist, the mist.
The Hopeless Vendetta 