St. Anley's fall from grace.

It is said that a good treatment for hypothermia is to share a sleeping bag with another person. Here I present a frightening tale of anthropomorphism that might make you question that received wisdom.

I will call it a 'Child (-ish) ballad', and give it a number. Thereby, people might be persuaded that it relates to some real event steeped in the history, folklore and legend of this celestial sphere. I wonder: one day, will someone collect this from a time-capsule and write learned footnotes about its origins? Will those alien intellects-to-come in their UFOs realise that it is simply the product of a teasing and disordered pseudo-brain occupying Earth-time's third millennium?

Here it is:

Saint Anley, the Maglite and the Spider.
(Child-ish # 7.259)



Saint Anley was a-walking all on a winter’s day.
With snow upon the usual paths, he quickly went astray.
He had no map or compass to show him his direction.
When darkness did around befall, he found he’d no protection.

He struggled ’gainst the icy blast over field and fell.
And then, perchance, he met a maid who said her name was Nell.
“How come you here this bitter night?” this maiden she did say.
“A walk for pleasure,” he replied, “and I fear I’ve lost my way.”

“Why, Sir, if pleasure you do seek, I’ll be of some assistance.”
She took him by his ice-numbed hand. He offered no resistance.
“You shall come home and share my cot and shelter from this storm,
And through the night we’ll sport and play and keep each other warm.”

Her offer was not idle, and he quickly followed after.
A stirring in his loins he felt and he thought, “This night I’ll have her.”
Her dwelling was a gloomy place, no light could Nell provide,
But quickly she climbed into bed and dragged him in beside.

St. Anley, being an innocent, uttered no objection.
The sport and play lasted many an hour (and that, without protection!)
In ecstasy St. Anley cried, “I must behold your face!”
But not one candle could be found within that humble place.

St. Anley delved within his pack and said, “I have the answer!”
He found illumination, by which he meant to glance her.
“It operates from batteries; they create a potential difference,
And when I turn it on like this, we shall have incandescence.”

Electrons flowed from pole to pole as the Maglite came to life.
Whilst dazzled by the light, he said, “I want you for my wife!”
Then slowly, --- oh so slowly, --- his vision did adjust.
An ugly crone before him lay and he lost all his lust.

A wart-covered face did he behold, with bits migrating south.
The hair that should have crowned her head was all around her mouth.
Her teeth that should've been pearly white, they were just blackened pegs.
Imagine his sheer horror when he found she had eight legs!


Her crooked smile was soon transformed into an evil glare.
St. Anley stood, as if transfixed. He was trapped in a spider’s lair.
“I have you!” cackled the arachnoid beast, “I hold you to our tryst:
You’ve vowed to be my husband. On that I do insist.”

Is there a moral to this tale of bestial deception?
Some say the Saint could’ve done with a mite more preparation.
An OS map and compass would have set him right,

…And ne'er again in all his life will he turn on that Maglite!


Footnote:

If you visit this post regularly, you will notice that it continually changes. Please regard it as work in progress. I am trying to find a tune for it, but scansion is difficult with so many polysyllabic words. Most of the narrative fits into an 85 85 85 85 meter, in the fashion of The English Hymnal notation. I am not qualified to explain that, nor am I sure really understand it. All suggestions welcome.