Rub-a-Dub-Doom

Rub-a-dub-dub,
Three men in a tub,
And who do you think they be?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,
And all of them out to sea.

Three men afloat, at sea with no boat.
Stranded and cast away.
The artisans three, afraid as can be,
What terrors beneath may await?

The butcher drew blades from the folds of his coat,
The baker clutched tight to a half-eaten loaf.
The candlestick maker just whispered a prayer,
While wax dripped slow in the salt-slicked air.

The tub it was listing but the sea was quite still.
The air was now misting, the tub it did fill.
The water came in but no wave in sight.
What creature was stirring below with such might?

A bubbling swirl from the depths did arise,
With tentacles coiling like ropes from the skies.
The baker screamed loud, the butcher took stance,
While candlelight flickered — its last dying dance.

A beast from below with a slumber disrupted.
The three men’s tub cruise now badly interrupted.
The butcher et. al. in fear for their lives.
Would they escape and return home to their wives?

It rose from the deep with eyes full of hate,
Its hunger awoken, too long it did wait.
The butcher struck first, but his knife found no mark
Just slick, rubber flesh and a scream in the dark.

But how did these men end up in the sea?
Perhaps for a punishment — but why would it be?
Respectable jobs not one but all three,
What crime did they do? Keep reading and see.

By day they sold wares, by night they sold vice—
A butcher of flesh, but not always of slice.
The baker dealt powders not meant for a cake,
And the candlestick maker? A poisoner. Fake.

So evil, so wicked, each man in his way.
And so now the kraken is having his day.
Be wise and be warned all ye who will plot.
The fruits of ill labors will come with a rot.

For justice may sleep, but the sea never does,
And evil is marked by the trail that it was.
So if ever you bathe and the water runs red,
Remember the tub… and what drags down the dead.

Bo Peep:

She Who Tends the Dark

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
Bringing their tails behind them.

But not a single one came,
Were they lost, sick, or lame?
Bo couldn’t say, but they’re missing all day.
She followed the trail through the thistle and thorn,
By twilight, her dress was ragged and torn.

She found a red ribbon, a hoof, and a bell—
But no sign of the flock… just a sulphurous smell.
Bo was ragged, and dirty and lost.
The dark it was coming, with an ominous cost.

She whispered a prayer, though no shepherd would hear,
Each step on the moor fed the weight of her fear.
Then out from the fog came a bleating, low, hollow
Not sheep, but a warning: “Turn back. Do not follow.”

Not a voice she had heard but a menacing growl.
This was more than a wolf though Bo knew it did howl.
Its eyes lit the dusk with a cold, hungry gleam,
Its breath stank of grave soil and long-buried dreams.

It circled the girl with a slow, steady tread—
A shepherd no more... just a girl among dead.
Bo readied herself with the stance of a knight.
Determined and ready to strike with her might.

Crouching and watching, staff tight in her hand,
This evil, this menace neither wolf nor a man.
The creature just laughed — a sound sharp and slick,
Like wind through a keyhole or clock gears that tick.

“You’re brave,” it hissed low, “but the brave perish too.”
Then it lunged from the dark... and Bo finally knew.
A terror, a monster or was it a man?
No time for discerning — she should flee if she can.

But her feet, they were frozen, like stone in the peat,
And her heart beat a war drum, a rapid retreat.
Yet something within her, a flicker, a flame—
She screamed through the night, but no rescue ever came.

The next morn a shepherd walked through the moor
And a sight did befall him that was gory and poor.
There sat a young lass, clothed in soil and grass.
Clutching a ribbon much like a garrote
round the neck of a creature of ilk he knew not.

Its limbs were misshapen, its snout split and black,
With antlers like branches that twisted back.
The girl did not speak, just stared through the trees,
As if hearing a song carried far on the breeze.

Be warned and beware of a lass with a staff.  

Her ribbons and lace are only but half.For under the silk and the soft golden curl,Lurks the ghost of the moor — not a sweet little girl.

She hums as she walks with her staff slick and red,
Counting the bones of the things that she’s fed.
A smile, soft and sweet, like a lullaby's end—
Bo Peep doesn’t need sheep… just something to tend.

The beast of the moors is not in the night.
She’s a child with a bloodlust though not in plain sight.
She’ll offer you shelter, a song, and a seat,
But her hearth is a trap and her kindness deceit.  

So heed this last warning, if living you’d keep—
Don’t follow the path... where Bo watches her sheep.

The Legend of

Jack Nimble

Jack be nimble,
Jack be quick,
Jack jump over
The candlestick.

Jack the hero,
Agile and sleek—
A bit of a weirdo,
Sort of a freak.