The Curse Carrier Poem by David Lewis Paget

The Curse Carrier



I saw him first when my Uncle Joe
Was travelling to his grave,
I'd said to avoid that gypsy girl
But he was too late to save,
He'd fallen down in an alleyway
Ahead of some gypsy curse,
And there was a man with a ponytail,
Walking behind the hearse.

He walked ten paces, after the hearse
His eyes cast down to the ground,
Holding a small, enamelled box
With a handle set in the crown,
And round the sides were a pair of eyes
Where the pupils glared, bright red,
Just like a demon staring out
With my uncle, stone cold dead.

They took the coffin out of the hearse
And laid it down on the earth,
Next to the hole they'd dug before
Then spoke of my uncle's dearth.
The man with the ponytail stood back
To wait for the ‘dust to dust',
Then everyone left the grave but him,
He said that he stayed, he must!

‘You'd better be getting off, ' he said
‘To join your friends at the wake, '
‘I'd rather be watching you, ' I said,
‘Just what's in that box you take? '
He held it up and away from me,
‘I think you'd better not know,
If you would not be infected, then
Take my advice, and go! '

Some months went by and the evil eye
Picked out a girl that I knew,
Her health was sound, but she still went down,
They said it was only the flu,
I followed the hearse to the cemetery,
Stood back at the mourner's tail,
And there, ten paces behind the hearse
Was the man with the ponytail.

He carried the box I'd seen before
Or thought I had, it was new,
For something was different, then I saw
The eyes on the box were blue,
I wondered if they were red for men
And blue for an innocent girl,
But after they left, he still stood there
With his box at the end of the world.

I lunged at him and I seized the box,
And held it up with a shout,
‘Don't be a fool, ' he snarled at me,
‘You'd better not let it out!
I have to bury the curse with her
The one that brought her to grief,
If this should get in the world out there
It will spread, beyond belief! '

I fought him off and I took it home,
I broke the lock on the lid,
And there inside was a parchment, old
With a script that I couldn't read,
The ink had faded to sepia,
A brown, the colour of mud,
And there at the base, two signatures,
And they'd been written in blood.

I felt a force as I held it there,
Leaching into my hands,
Travelling steadily up my arms
A force I couldn't command,
Then everyone that I spoke to seemed
To die, the following day,
I'd never seen so many funerals,
My friends, all passing away.

But now, the man in the ponytail
Stood still as each hearse passed by,
Holding a small enamelled box
With a red and glaring eye,
My heart stood still as he glared at me,
He followed wherever I fled,
I know he's lying in wait, to walk
Behind the hearse, when I'm dead!

14 March 2013

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David Lewis Paget

David Lewis Paget

Nottingham, England/live in Australia
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