Story Teller

We spent the day at Grandpa’s house. At bedtime, as we would often do, By the fireplace we did rendezvous While Grandpa stoked his corncob pipe. When he leaned back his rocking chair And asked with a wink of his eyes: “Anyone like to hear a story?” “Yes, yes, yes,” we all would then cry. We never knew quite what he would do Much less whatever he would say. Some stories were gory; some sad. Most were happy and none were bad. From ‘neath bushy brows he scanned us. “Want a tale of ghosts, not scary?” We were just a little wary And yet we said, “Yes, yes, yes!” “Well, early one morn, Papa ghost Came home from his favorite haunt Where he had worked, until exhaust, Then struggled home, a-feeling gaunt. Well, early is late for a ghost So, his wife and son were off to bed. With a snack, his wife had left a note ‘Today, Junior learned his first word. He’ll surprise you with it later!’ He ate his food; then got some more Out of the refrigerator. He ate until his belly swore.” “Oh, Grandpa, you know it didn’t really!” “Just wait until you’re his age gang. Your stomach can give you a bang! Anyway, Your Papa Ghost, Cleaned up the kitchen; doused the lights Walked upstairs like he would always do, Then he nearly hit the ceiling Because his ghastly son yelled, ‘Boo!’”