The Bogie

by Glen Martin Fitch

My leaven makes my muffins rise.
My eggs are never runny
My pudding could take any prize.
My secret? Not for money.
There's a bogie in my kitchen.
He's the joy that makes my life.
By night he sweeps the crumbs away
And sharpens every knife.

Who catches eggs when falling fast
And sets them down without a crack?
No mold I find. My jellies last.
There's always apples in my sack.
There's a bogie in my kitchen.
Ah, the happiness I've found.
By night he shoos the bugs away
And makes my butter sound.

But once I had another house!
And, oh, the porridge stuck, the cider spilt!
My grain was gone! So fat the mouse!
My carrots shrank! The greens would wilt!
The wrong Bogie! the wrong kitchen!
The worst life then I had!
My tongue was burnt! My elbows bled!
I howled like I was mad!

But in this house my life is charmed.
And, oh the compliments I get.
And if I yawn, why nothing's harmed.
Yet him I dassen't e're upset.
And so!
The bogie in my little house
Gets by night his bowl of cream.
My family's happy, so am I ,
And so's the bogie, it would seem.

But if he'd help the mallet
Hit the steak, I'd never scream!


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 24, 2011