|Once there lived an old chap in a faraway village,
In the entire hood, he’s more oft nattered about.
Though he looked so ordinary;
Even his cat named Barry.
But in their eyes, he’s such the odd man out.
The villagers always tried in all possible manner,
Not to cross path with him so to eschew —
Paying heed to his yarn of feats,
And all his claims of cryptic treats.
He had even bitten off more than he could chew.
One cloudless morn, he saw some rug rats playing
Under the shade of an aged balete tree.
He came over to greet ‘hello.’
Of course, the kids already know…
So, they were truly apprehensive as they flee!
‘What could be possibly wrong?’ He contemplated things.
Was it because he walked the trails with feet bared?
Was it his chest-long beard,
The made the villagers afeared?
Oh no! Was it because of all the stories he shared?
He felt the fingers of dejection caressing his wrinkles
As he thought of the third of the questions.
He just wanted to ensure
Plot of his every adventure,
Will be made known through his narrations.
In his very understanding there is nothing wrong
From sharing when he raced with giants he came first.
Or how he slayed a mighty dragon,
Hitched a ride in a bandwagon
Full of goblins and saved a princess from a curse!
Maybe the villagers were just anxious of the day
When the sorcerers he defeated will take revenge!
Turn them all to beasts so furry
Like his cat named Barry
A vast and feeble neighborhood to avenge!
Or simply maybe they don’t know him yet;
The reason they all had stories of him.
Tales that come in one or cluster.
Some said he’s the real monster.
Many pictures of him being mad and being grim.
Until when he became so sick, could walk his yard no more.
He asked for help; t’was hard for him to stand!
Just impassive maybe,
Or truly out of apathy…
Not a single neighbor came to lend a hand.
One night a painful bellow was heard from inside his cabin
And for days a foul smell diffused with the breeze.
The news was immediately spread —
The old man was already dead!
He was found lifeless, bowing down in his knees.
As the men came to his house, piled notes were found…
His written stories! There were guilty tears.
In his skinny, wrinkly fingers,
A rugged pen, there lingers,
His loyal company for all his lonely years.
But how about Barry, what happened to him?
Wait, was he also untrue?
A reveal next in line…
Yes, this little feline…
Was one of his stories, too!