The wishing box, so they say, is passed from hand to hand,
And comes from very far away, a dark and distant land,
The wood is old and worn, the lock that's rusted once was grand,
And locked inside, five shrivelled fingers on a bed of sand.
The hand of fortune, so it's called, is sealed inside the box,
The hand of fortune, through the years, has broken many locks,
It's fingernails can pick and it is smarter than a fox,
And when it senses someone near it balls it's fist and knocks.
It is said, among the travellers that know that tale,
That if the ancient box should break and free it from its jail,
Or if the ancient lock should be unlocked or elsewise fail,
They never speak the ending, and their faces all turn pale.
If you can find the box, then hope you never find the key,
And do not ever speak out loud the wish your wish might be,
For though good fortune may yet come to fill your heart with glee,
The hand is waiting for the day that soon it will be free.
And once it's free, it beckons for your very hand to shake,
For only once you clasp it can the wishing contract make,
And once you shake the hand you'll feel the earth beneath you shake,
And far beneath the ground a chain waits for your soul to take.
YOU ARE READING
Never told Nursery Rhymes
PoetryAre these the sort of things you like, my dear? the stories and the rhymes that make you shake? are you the sort who seeks darkness and fear? I surely hope you are, for your own sake. In here you'll meet the fear who has a face, in here you'll feel...
