Sitting in my castle gloomy,
Feeling old and rather rheumy,
Thinking of the peasants beaten,
Scrumptious children I have eaten,
There is nothing left to do or see.
Getting old (two hundred eighty),
Every sagging bit more weighty,
Worst of all, I’m awfully smelly
Covered in bat guts, newt jelly,
A shame a bath would spell catastrophe.
Centuries of grime so sickly,
Crawling bugs make me feel tickly,
Thoughts of cleaning make me crazy,
The air around me dank and hazy,
Could a bit of water dangerous be?
The tempting thought of one real cleaning
Finally gives my life some meaning.
I dive into a bath all bubbly,
Nothing left to be so troubly;
A faded shawl is all that’s left of me.
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