Friday, 20 November 2009



Now gather round and let me tell
The tale of Danny Wise:
And how his sweet wife Annabelle
Did suck out both his eyes.

And if I tell the story true
And if I tell it clear
There's not a mortal one of you
Won't shriek in mortal fear.

She gathered kindle in the wood
She gathered twigs and cones
To cook a soup of oxen blood
And out of certain bones.

He met her when the sun was low
His horse had lost his way.
And he was blind, and couldn't know
The evening from the day.

The village folk, they called him wise
He saw through people's hearts.
But Annabelle lived in disguise
She came from other parts.

Maybe a demon out of hell
A spirit from a grave.
At first she treated him quite well
Good nourishment she gave.

She gave him shelter for the night
He stayed for many days.
Poor Danny's wisdom couldn't fight
Against her gentle ways.

Her family had died, she said
And she was all alone.
But she had vegetables and bread
Her food was never gone.

He stayed until she married him
She married many men.
She pickled them and kept them fresh
And cooked them in her den.

She liked his head, she liked his brain
She liked his tender eyes
They had been blind, but then again
They tasted like his thighs

Or maybe even softer still
He gave her quite a thrill
His other parts, she kept them well
And later ate her fill.

This is not really how he died
But we have heard her name
And people like the way I've lied
It helps us with our game.

Stephen Fry (first two stanzas) / MW
December 2008

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