Abi Wyatt

Mother Hubbard’s Lament
The old ways are dying out
and we, I fear, must fade with them.
Nobody now makes homemade pie
so the blackbirds sing and fly free.
All the wells have run dry
and the world grows dim
since the candle-maker’s
passed into receivership;
and, though the jolly pie-man
peddles well his wares,
at the fairground no one buys.
Now the pipes have fallen still
and the fiddlers have ceased;
all the tarts – either burned or long stolen.
For want of more honey,
the pale Queen weeps
and the Grand Duke numbers his dead.
While the pussycat dines
on the startled owl,
Big George and Little Willie are indicted;
and, in the counting house,
as the numbers stack up,
the old King puts a pistol to his head.

Abi Wyatt © 2011