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The Unbeatable Victorian Parlour Trick


Gilbert Syndrome
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This is a tale concerning a man of fine magic,
obsessed with his craft to a point rather tragic.

He craved for the limelight and the public's warm gaze,
an obsession that brought a sudden end to his days.

-

"We are gathered in attendance, to witness magic before our eyes.
We're here today to revel within the surest shocks of wizardry and surprise!"

And so the dapper man in the top-hat stood back,
a bright beacon in a raggedy room.
With a wink of the eye and a wave of his hand,
A bunch of decaying flowers soon began to bloom.

The audience clapped in aghast-laden glee,
with the fervent fever of gin-soaked curiosity.

He handed the flowers to a young girl at the front,
and again prepared to dazzle with his next little stunt.

"Behold this white rabbit! I shall wish it away!"
He placed his hat on the creature and then moved it away.
The rabbit was gone, in its place was a pear,
the audience clapped once again with a glassy-eyed stare.

"But this is mere fool's work," he chortled with a certain smug disdain,
"my power is much more than this, allow me to explain."

He placed his top-hat back upon his well-groomed head,
and stared out into the grubby room with eyes as grey as lead.

"For my next trick I shall take this pistol and press it against my skull."
He opened the barrel and held it out, to prove that it was full.

"He must be mad," said a battered old hag with a bottle of ale in her hand.
"Mad? No, not I!" He implored, "I most assuredly am rather grand."

He placed the gun beside his head, licked his lips and then he said:
"I shall place each of these bullets inside my own skull,"
when the woman chimed in again, her bottle half-full.
"A load of bloody nonsense!" She cried, "let's use a real gun!"
And she pulled out a musket, looking game for a bit of fun.

The rowdy little room swiftly rocked in approving cheer,
"Perhaps he's not as great as he says," said one man with a sneer.

"Now, ladies, gents, one moment, please..."

"He's not a magician," one hollered, "he's just a tease!"

"Very well, then," he says, with just a touch of malaise,
and he takes the musket from the woman's old hand.
He feels the weight of the gun, such deadly fun,
and he considers himself as rather grand.

In his mind he knows well that this trick will go badly,
for it's an alien gun, and with real bullets, sadly!
But such a stubborn practitioner of his trade is this bloke,
that he'd much rather die than to appear as a joke.

So he lifts up the musket and takes a final sniff at the air,
before pulling the trigger, forever parting his hair.

His brains flew like jelly in a child's food-fight,
they splattered the punters from left to right.
The audience screamed and they dropped their gin,
the little room was plastered with burnt hair and skin.

The newspapers loved it, the local vicar called it "SICK!"
It'll surely take some beating, though,
that gruesome parlour trick!

 © 5 years ago, M. J. Gilchrist 
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Welcome to UM!  Your poem sounds in the beginning like a Limerick but then wanders into a type I don't recognize.  Cool story though :) 

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13 hours ago, and-then said:

Welcome to UM!  Your poem sounds in the beginning like a Limerick but then wanders into a type I don't recognize.  Cool story though :) 

Cheers, mate. Yeah it's just a bit of a fun rhyme I made up after the odd title came to me one day. ;)

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  • 2 weeks later...

This is a better love story than the whole Twilight Trilogy.

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