The Wraith

Let me tell you a tale of mystery

About a man in a mask.

His identity is never revealéd.

I know it not, so please, don’t ask.

This man’s a hero to many

‘cept those that are up to no good.

It’s rumoured he’s one of nobility.

Descended from one i’ the hood.

None know from whence he comes

One wonders if he’s really a wraith

Is he a figment of imagination

Or a realisation of faith?

He appears as if out of nowhere.

His face hid yet his eyes all aglow.

He comes when he’s most needed

And after who knows where he go?

There was one time when the noble Warwick,

On t’road to Banbury goeth he

Was chanc’d upon by highwaymen

Even his escort get beateth be.

When out of the essence of space

He appears right in their midst.

Frozen in time were the assailants

And vanquish them he didst.

“Noble sir how can I thank you” said the Earl?

The wraith just turned to him and bowed.

“No need, the honour is mine” spake the form.

“I have been after these vermin for days,

And am glad that now they’ve been cowed.”

“Then at least tell me thy name

So that to your name we may offer a toast.”

With that the form replied “Sire,

you may just call me Ghost”

Upon the mention of that name

The winds rose and the cloaks they all swished

When the Earl and his men their composure regained

They notice that Ghost had just vanished.

Such occurrences have repeated themselves,

Each one preventing a crime,

I will be happy these tales for to tell,

But not now, another time.

©Michael Birchmore 2013

 

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