By winter fireside’s orange glow
And leaping flame’s hypnotic show,
All snug and warm from chilling snow
As Pop recounts in tones, dead slow,
Tall tales and lore from long ago--
Hairs stand on end and goose bumps grow.
Old myths of swamplands dark and dread,
The home to dragons breathing red
Create word pictures in your head
And when it comes to time for bed
The comfort of the hearth has fled--
Cold chills run down your spine instead.
We jump beneath the sheets in fright,
Our minds are full of mythic sights—
We dare not quench the bedside light
For fear of creatures of the night—
We drift asleep—all’s peace and quiet—
When morning comes, no ghouls in sight.
In worlds where nothing stays the same
I miss home’s orange fireside flame;
Tale-telling left when T.V. came--
Perhaps progression is to blame!
But Pop’s tall tales now seem so tame
Compared to modern ghoulish games.
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