Old Ms. Bishop

‘Twas minus seventeen the day
that old Ms. Bishop came to stay.
A relict in a long black cloak,
who often scowled, and rarely spoke.
Her bony fingers fiercely seized
the handle of her black valise.
“What’s in that case?” The children cried,
as old Ms. Bishop stepped inside.
“Why, in this bag I keep my strap,
so watch your step, or I shall snap
this tar dipped switch upon your hides.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” The children cried.
From her bag she pulled a paper:
“Your wise parents signed this waiver.”
To which the children sulked: “We’ll sue,
and that will be the last of you.
You’ll expire in a dungeon,
if you ever try to bludgeon
even one of our precious pates,
our lawyers will retaliate!”
Ms. Bishop’s blood began to steam,
her face turned white, then red, then green.
“Impertinence!” Ms. Bishop yelped,
“I’ll have to learn you little whelps.
I conferred with your lawyers, too,
and they consent that I’m right to
go with your parents given leave
to thrash your bottoms ‘till you bleed
if ever it pops in your head
to skip your prayers before your bed,
or if you ratiocinate
to leave food on your dinner plate,
or if I find your shoes are dull,
I’ll gladly split your ruddy skulls,
and suck your brains out for a snack,
now run and play—while I unpack.”
And with this she trudged up the stairs,
and left the children in despair.
The children wept, and cried, and sobbed:
“Our parents advertised this job
widely, where are all our options?
Come and save us Mary Poppins!”
The children sobbed and wept and cried:
“Soon enough we will all have died!
It’s us or her, she’s got to go!
‘But how to snuff her?’ –‘I don’t know!’”
The children cried, and sobbed and wept:
“Remember where the guns are kept?
And go and fetch a pointed stick,
and gasoline and arsenic.
Go get sharp things from the kitchen,
anything to do that witch in!
We’ll shoot her, and then stake her heart,
and then we’ll cut her all apart,
and poison every part we’ve cut,
then douse her down, and blow her up!”
So each child tiptoed like a mouse
to scrounge for weapons round the house,
then each child tiptoed up the stairs,
and waited twitching, and prepared.
An hour passed, an hour more,
no sound was heard behind the door.
They stared morosely at the clock,
‘till one child said: “We’d better knock.”
“No one answers,” the knocker sighed,
“Well take a peek!” the others cried.
and so they eased the door a crack,
and there the crone sat, staring back,
the frown still frozen on her face,
but eyes a glaze, gazed into space.
…For sadly, she had just expired,
the stairs were too much for her tired
heart, the exertion left her dead.
The children laughed, and then one said:
“I wonder if our parents care
that this week that’s our third au pair?”
They threw their weapons on the rug,
and shared in a communal hug.
They hugged a while with all their might,
then went to have a snowball fight.