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by Hurdling Skooter


When sun rose pale o’er distant shore,

silver waves breaking on lonely strand,

all by himself, so sad and so sore,

Crimble sat moaning, his head in his hand


“Oh, who can I find that will help me?

Oh who will relieve my distress?

To show me the cause of my misery,

To point out the road to redress.”


Poor Crimble had never known laughter,

Poor Crimble had never known love.

The soul mates that he had chased after

had all quickly given him the shove.


In vain did he search for a reason,

the cause of his unending woe.

Was it just that he searched out of season,

 or did he not know where to go?


“Could it be that I have halitosis

or some other grave malady?

Is it because I like picking noses

though they do not belong to me?”


“It is true that I am somewhat hairy,

with a visage both eerie and grim,

and I make many creatures quite wary

by gobbling them up on a whim”


“I confess I have a short temper

that makes me gibber and roar.

but the main cause of my distemper

is a heart that is aching and sore.”


All at once the idea came to him,

a notion both welcome and canny:

no longer to wail at the world’s rim,

instead he would go and find Granny


“She is the one who can help me

and soothe me with her gentle care.

Over a cup of her herb tea

in the welcoming warmth of her lair.”


“She is the one to advise me,

and help me to mend my ways.

As once I sat on her old knee

for comfort in my early days”


Cheered by his sudden decision

Crimble departed at once.

No more would he face cruel derision,

in life’s classroom the lowly dunce.


The journey to Granny was risky,

with many a hazard to face

and monsters large and frisky

prowling all over the place


Dragging his knuckles behind him

Crimble set off ‘cross the plain.

But he shivered and skirted the woods dim

where the Nurglers itched to cause pain.


So at last he found her cottage

nestled at the mountain’s foot

Saw her slowly eating pottage

from an aged welly boot


It seemed at first she failed to notice

as he called out “Granny dear!”

and she swung up to the rooftop

with a motion swift and queer.


Glad he was to see her nimble

though she had a silvered head.

“Help me darling Gran!” cried Crimble

“Bugger off!” his Granny said


When sun rises pale o’er distant shore,

silver waves breaking on lonely strand,

all by himself, his head in one paw,

Crimble sits drinking, getting steadily canned.

© Hurdling Skooter 2013


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