When The Ginger Boy Sings

In the woods of November
When the nightfall dusters tease
I have heard the ginger boy singing
To the will of the trees

Primordial is his incantation
Hazardous it is to man
For it calls the dreadful power
Of the primitive god, Great Pan

If you hear his pipes softly playing
As the gloaming obscurity fall
You will never know happiness
In this ordinary world at all

Drawn you’ll be to delightful kingdoms
In the rocks of the moon,
Lost to insipid and dull-eyed customs
In the glamour of pixie soon

Little knows the pale Christian
Safely snuggled in his bed
Of the wild hunt’s fascination
Or the rising of the dead

Those who go about their business
In the safety of the sun,
Those who think the day is over,
When it has just begun,

They know not the forceful fervor
Of the Great Horned God’s embrace
Nor could their loins endure the fire
Of the lust upon his face.

You may well see me in the town,
Working for my room and board,
And not know that I am hearing
Music of the Elvin hoard,

Never guess that, come the Sabbath
I’m away into the wood
Where, upon the Great Pan’s phallus
I offer up my precious good

Autumn darkness early gathers
Mortals of the darkling race
Revolving in a ballet of passion
Uncontrolled by time and space

Go you not among them earthly
When you hear the pipes of Pan
Lest they catch your heart and change you
When the ginger boy sings, they can

© 2003 Jeffrey L. Williams Jr.

Jeffrey welcomes your comments!