He is a man but not quite

He feasts on moth wings by the light of a fat sun

And makes melodies from bird bones at night

 

Rats follow his song and deer flee

At the sight of an ancient gaze

He collects beetles in the dark

And plants teeth in babies’ graves

 

He will play the dead song for a price

And dance with forest shadows for the night

He eats the ghosts of stone crooked homes

And plays the bird-bone pipe for all

 

For some the toll is much too high

They leave him on the street to wither and die

Spider-woven rags melt into stone

And at night they hear the pied piper’s siren cry

 

The price is paid with delicacies and seeds

He takes what he can then he leaves

The choir sings in horror when they find

The children are alive, but where are their eyes?

 

He drinks from rainwater and lives in wells

He exhales dust and weaves his spells

In his jolly red pocket he carries eyes

And they say he is a man but not quite