‘Twas on a chilly, windy night
When my big brother, we’ll call Dwight,
With quivering lip held firm in bite
Turned on our dad’s big Magna-Lite.
He gripped it in his hand so tight
That all his knuckles turned to white,
And with its shining beam so bright,
Stepped through the door of Hooper’s Height.
That bastion of decaying plight
Did stand alone with haunted might
‘Neath gnarled branches bare from blight,
‘Mid shadows spilled by pale moonlight.
Inside, thick webs Dwight had to fight,
While noises did his fears ignite;
Then something moved just to his right!
Old armour from a long-dead knight
With eyes that locked onto his sight!
Now trepidation turned to fright,
And bravery melted into flight.
Dwight ran, feet seemingly alight,
... And never did this tale he cite.
How, then, did I know what to write?
Of course -- I was the knightly sprite!