The dusk has descended upon narrow lanes,
a curious mist swirls around.
No sign of the wily street vendor remains
and company cannot be found
The streetlights have failed to produce any glow
and the moon has been swift in retreat.
Then there comes a tap tapping the Devil might know
of a cane on the grey cobbled street.
It is Oswald, alone on his nightly patrol
in his velvety cloak and its hood.
If he fixes a stare there is none to console;.
his advances cannot be withstood.
But where does it hail from, this skeletal gaze,
with its parlour of snow driven white?
In what darkened corner does he spend his days
and why does he wander by night?
His tongue is Slavonic, his diction is pure,
It is said he’s a Bosnian lord,
yet queer incantations that none can endure
have slain more than a nobleman’s sword.
The dust has descended upon narrow lanes,
a curious mist swirls around.
And even the rats have returned to their drains.
and troubles O troubles abound.
© 2022 Nick Baker
Can be sung to the tune of …