Treasure Island

David Lewis Paget

(22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

Ganga Rok

They say there’s a God called Ganga Rok
And he lurks out there in the trees,
While rumours tell of the sacrifice
Of a woman, down on her knees,
The locals say there’s a Voodoo cult
With an Alligator Head,
An Alligator called Ganga Rok
That walks with the Great Undead.

It was just an hour before the dawn
At the closing of the night,
I couldn’t sleep, I’d heard you weep
As your mind had taken fright,
You spoke of shadows, ghostly forms
That you saw outside the shades,
Making their way to who-knows-where
Out there, in the Everglades.

The evening air had been intense
And the heat was getting you down,
I’d heard you murmur, ‘Recompense! ’
Then faint, and fall to the ground,
I laid you down on the old chaise longue
But your eyes stared up in fear,
‘Whatever you do, don’t let them in,
Don’t let them come in here! ’

Your dreams were getting much darker since
That Shaman came to town,
He fixed you once with an evil glare
As he whispered, so profound;
‘He told me I should feel honoured,
For the deed that has to be done,
I must be mad, for I felt quite glad
To be picked for the chosen one! ’

I hushed you then and I set the locks
On the shutters and the doors,
I roamed the house and I went upstairs
To check on the upper floors,
But when I hurried back down to you
Where the candle lit the gloom,
The chaise longue sat there, minus you
In a silent, empty room.

I called your name out, ‘Jacqueline!
Don’t leave me, where have you gone? ’
The door at the front lay open, with
Your footsteps pressed in the lawn,
I saw a number of ghostly forms
Walk into the Everglades,
And you were there, with your head bowed down,
And your wrists bound up in chains.

I ran as fast as I could, but lost you
There in the maze of trees,
As the first dim light of dawn approached
I fell down on my knees,
For there on a rock and peering up
Was a giant Gator’s form,
It leered at me from behind a tree,
Then I blinked, and it was gone.

The Sheriff came with the awful news
That I hadn’t wanted to hear,
‘We think it’s your wife, your Jacqueline,
You said she had disappeared.
You wouldn’t want to be seeing her
The Gator took her head,
But everything comes to him who waits,
We shot that monster dead! ’

The head of Ganga Rok looks down
From above my parlour door,
Its evil eyes are fixed on me
And its grinning, savage jaw,
But shadows flit outside at night
Now that their God is dead,
And Jacqueline speaks most tenderly
From out of the monster’s head.

26 April 2013

Submitted: Thursday, April 25, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, September 25, 2013

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  • S.zaynub Kamoonpuri (4/27/2013 1:42:00 AM)

    Phew tell me dis aint true n just yor wondrful imagination! I say its a fantastic ballad oh my. Do read mine too. (Report) Reply

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