Chicken feed
9-27-09


There’s a path into the woods
a little deeper still,
where the children fear to go
past the old gristmill.

The miller’s wife ugly as sin,
nagged him night and day;
when thoughts rose get rid of her;
he had the perfect way.

He’ll grind up this nagging crow
there beneath the stone,
turn her into chicken feed
hair, flesh and bone.

It’s said on calm moon lit nights
in the midnight gleam,
you can hear the grinding stone
churn, churn, screech, and scream.
~~~~~
Now I’m not one to say it’s so
maybe it’s not true
but I’ll not wander past the mill
even on a daring-do

J.C. Hill

Another unusual one from you, Jack! What's in that Missouri water these days?? (or what are YOU putting in it?? haha) Eerie & creepy poem! Great for the Halloween month! ~~lb~~

Thanks LB and anyone else that may have wandered by.

Jack