T’was lost in grim and foggy days when falmouth’d men did scream.
Then had risen a murdulent beast, a seaver he did seem.
I asked around and found its name: The Blickershin, it was called.
Beware my dear, the Blickershin, lest it lead you to your fall.
The Blicker leads you down his path and hides his lips asmack,
His needlefangs gleam wetly as he sneaks behind your back.
I will tell you, little dear, how the Blickershin will strike.
He’ll approach all aswuff and smandy with a gruperb idea you’ll like.
He’ll show you a fine and lovely path and bid you simply follow
As he promises to guide you through forests dark and hollow.
Then before you know it, begun is his betrayal
‘Tis then you finally realize you’ve come this far to fail.
Soon you’ve gotten yourself good and lost, and used up all the bait
The Blickershin’s got no love of thinking, so until this point he’ll wait.
When he strikes, you cannot kill him, this beast as old as rhyme,
For the very spirit of beceit and detrayal is in his soul, you’ll find.
To beat him back, there are things you’ll need:
A love of caution and a love to read,
Tie a rope about your waist, anchored fast to reason,
With a mirror looking back to show you successful seasons.
When the Blickershin finally strikes, ask of him a riddle.
While his face shakinks and pontorts, his mind on thoughtful griddle,
Make your escape, little dear, back to where you first met;
If he wanted you to go one way, then the other is the safer bet!
The Blickershin will find you again, for his kind always does
But for all his talk, he’s none too clever: how can you be with a head of fuzz?
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