poetry time :)
once again thank you for the comments, they're very flattering, and I'll keep some of the suggestions in mind. Oh and forgive the bad french, the line in Spike's poem is REALLY bad french, but then since when would spike bother to learn French?
“Oh Anita, I’m glad you’re back, Rudolph has just popped out to sort something on a case, I asked him to stop off the shops to pick up some things for your little guest on the way back. He woke up a while ago and he’s been very busy writing some poetry, he said we could hear some when you came back.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t think he’s very good at it, it seems he’s been told he’s bad at it so we should try to be encouraging.”
“Thanks Lucille. I’m going to make some coffee, do you want some?”
“That would be lovely.” Spike wandered in gripping the pencil and paper Lucille had given him, but he was very careful to point the pencil away from him at all times. He smiled at the two women before scowling at Jean-Claude in the doorway.
“Hiya ‘Nita, Poof.” He put the notebook down on the coffee table carefully, before running back to fetch Sigmund which he held up to Anita. “You can have him back now.”
“I tell you what, I’ll look after him while we listen to this poetry you’ve been writing then I think it’ll be time for Sigmund to go to bed again.”
“Ok.” His smile lit up his pointy little face. Anita could NOT believe she was getting pangs, she wasn’t the maternal type. “You sit here, and you here, I guess you can sit over there.” He arranged them all to his satisfaction, Jean-Claude had tried to protest but been silenced by a glare from Anita, then he put Sigmund on Lucille’s knee ‘where he could get a good view’. Eventually all was ready.
“Blood is red,
And stakes are brown,
When the slayer is hunting,
The dust swamps the town.”
“That’s very good sweetie, but what is a slayer?” Lucille asked encouragingly.
“I don’t remember anymore… I think she kills vampires…”
“Like an Executioner?” Anita seemed interested, he was an odd child.
“I don’t know, what’s an executioner?” The adult exchanged glances.
“Maybe we’ll talk about it another time, this is meant to be about your wonderful poetry.” Spike beamed at the compliment.
“Ok, I did some limericks as well!
There once was a vampire called Angel,
Who used far too much hair gel,
He got so very sticky,
That brushing was tricky,
And he looked like he’d been dragged backwards through hell.”
“Very well done.”
“Erm I’m not sure if I should do the next one…” He glanced sideways at Jean-Claude. Who raised an eyebrow in return.
“Perhaps I should leave?” Noticing the slight sigh as he said that confirmed the poem was about him. He refused to feel territorial about the attention Anita paid to a four year old. “I will see you soon Ma Petite.”
“Ok… I might as well read it now.” Spike said as the door closed.
“There once was a French guy called Jean-Claude,
And whenever he spoke it made people bored,
They told him “go away”
“Je suis think moi will stay”
Until they cut his poncy head off with a sword.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Anita said, complete with finger wag.
“I’m sorry.” He looked so forlorn, like a little puppy.
“It’s alright, it was funny though, you know I think you could be a very good poet with some practice, just try to avoid writing insulting ones about real people ok?”
“Ok. If your friends can’t find out where I was meant to be before could I stay here?” He just looked so sweet and vulnerable.
“Maybe… that’s not a yes mind you, but I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you Mommy ‘Nita. Oh I have one more poem left, and it’s a nice one instead, it’s about the… the… Vampire Slayer, I think her name was funny, like Fluffy or something… my memory of before is getting kinda fuzzy, but I remember her kind of so I wrote a poem about it.”
“Her hair like sun,
Which burns me with it’s shininess,
Tears my unbeating heart.
Her eyes like the sea,
So wet and so soothing,
Changes emotions like the tide.
Her breasts like rounded hills, (They both gasped)
Firm and yet soft as fresh turned earth,
I want to bury my face in them like a fleshy grave.
“I think that’s enough William, besides I think Sigmund is getting pretty sleepy.” Lucille interrupted. She couldn’t believe what he had just written, where had this boy come from?
“Alright but you didn’t hear the last verse.”
“It’s ok. I don’t think we could handle much more though. We aren’t used to poetry.” She smiled at him and handed him a mug of warm milk with cinnamon.