We're not dead yet! We feel fine!

Time now in the Field of Reeds:

Gorey the Ghastly:

an apocryphal tale

Cursed by good health,
And not quite pale enough
This wretched young Writer
Wrote terrible stuff.

As he grew older
And bitter and cranky
And tired of writing
For children all happy

Our writer began
On the gruesomest stories
To finally do justice
To being called 'Gorey'

Each caustic appraisal
Of childhood life
Was carefully basted
In dark-humoured light

Our parents were nervous
That with him we smiled
For he'd captured the truth
Of the life of a child

There were no sweet dreams
No sugar-plum fairies
The dreams that stayed with us
Were terribly scary!

And now that he'd cast them
In humorous light
We could sleep without fear
In our bedrooms at night

So here's to the man
With the eyes of a child
Who told us the truth
And let us run wild.

(for edward gorey; d. 04.15.00)