Call him the Green Knight
or the wood's Green Man.
Call him Robin Goodfellow
or call him the man-god Bran.
Call him Lord of the May-Games;
after all, what's in a name?
The ruby shoes?
An Emerald City?
Ah gold-and-jewels !
Brain and courage?
A human heart?
With all three
you've a rich-start !
Deep-down in London's Mudfog
Fagin never prince, ever frog,
pickpocketeer and foul-underdog,
utmost-greedy-king of the bog.
Pucker-lipped Puck atop your hill,
now you pout over the wand-waving-mite
who, painty-winged below your pinnacle
rises to make you look a fairy-fright !
A girdle of heads she wears,
the dark goddess of death.
Ah yes the dance of doom is hers,
she'll surely drain the breath
of any-man whom in Kali does belive.
Of any-man who Kali would-dare-so-deceive.