A Sister Goblin

Stuff that elongated goblin
(tied to a watch-chain)
back in your pocket
before Miss Robin knocks!

“How is my poisoned boy?” she coos.
And you will either weave a story
gory as eyeball-grapes
in a blinded hand,
or quaver truth-toned:
“Darling, I must first feed my creature;
he dies molasses,
but I promise he dies.”

“Then you are not yet unpoisoned?”
Miss Robin frets
her auburn locks unraveled;
tears drop, lollypop-falling
to the gravel outside.
But several slide
into her apron-pouch.

A small hand, long and finger-warted
grabs one –– unwraps it,
pink lips puckered.
“Miss Robin,” you whisper,
“you carry my goblin’s sister
chained and suckling.”