Spirit in a Bottle by Andrew Hangsing



‘Twas just this afternoon that I met him,

Whistling, skipping up the winding road,

Picking up loose rocks and patting dogs,

Greeting all he met with a smile, broad;

Never a kinder man nor more full of cheer

Could ever be a passer-by, there.


Now he comes a-trudging, zig-zag walking –

His vision not, by veiling Dusk, helped –

Hurling abuses at bemused men

While the confused dogs could only yelp

As the cheerful lad of before now struggle,

Grasped by the spirit in a bottle.


A possessed man, a zombie now I see;

His trapped soul, if any, trying to flee.


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