THE SHED

THE SHED by Ian Thomson

In my spider-filled shed, where the flowers were all dead,
And the garden could grow only weeds
In an old watering can, lived a nasty wee man
Who yelled “Beat it !” if I touched his beads.

These beads could be tragic, for they made black magic,
Kids cried, that’s what gave him a laugh.
When shorty Ben Foller wished he were much taller,
The beads turned him to a giraffe!

His magic beads frightening, like thunder and lightning,
Meant no one could chase him away
The beads became badder as he became madder,
We had to control him some way.

Wee Ben called to tell that a white magic spell
Might cancel out black magic beads.
But where could we get one? We tried in Tibet – none!
Not even in Bradford or Leeds.

In quiet desperation, outside the train station
We made our last try to bring peace.
I met my aunt Betty (She’d married a Yeti)
Who sold us the spell and shed keys.

So back to the shed, where the flowers were still dead,
Wee Ben read the spell that was white
But loud snores from the man in the watering can
Meant he’d not heard a word, serves him right!

The good spell took effect and the old shed was wrecked.
Large planks blew away in the wind.
The old timber flooring then smashed all the doors in
The pieces filled up our brown bin.

Now we finish this poem, the wee man headed home
And we never did see him again
But sometimes, late at night, there’s a noise, gives a fright,
For it sounds like a snore in a can