The Ledger

In smoky halls where echoes groan, They carved the truths in tempered stone, Yet none recall the scribe who wrote, A chap in boots and mismatched coat. His quill was plucked from harpy's wing, He’d hum while making corpses sing, And in his book, no saints nor rules, Just jesters crowned as sacred fools. He’d scrawl: “The Pharaohs danced in socks,” “Atlantis sank for TikTok shocks,” “The gods play poker, bluffing fate,” And “Death’s quite fond of jam on plate.” No funeral dirge, no sacred chant, Just stories of a ghostly aunt, Who haunts her pub near Camden Town, And downs her Guinness upside down. In Chapter Twelve, he penned with flair, “The soul’s a squirrel. It climbs. Beware, Of preachers selling spirit glue, And wizards who misplace their shoe.” The elders scoffed, the prophets wept, The choirboys fainted as they slept. But underground, the rebels laughed And toasted with their witchy draught. He wrote of love, of wars, of tea, Of how the stars play hide and seek, Of time, “a dodgy landlord bloke, Who always vanishes mid-smoke.” The Book of Souls, they locked away, Filed under “Myths” in disarray. But every now and then it speaks, When full moons twitch and reason leaks. It sings not hymns but punk and blues, Of afterlives in dancing shoes, A book that breathes, that mocks control, And dares to ask: Who owns the soul? So if you find it, dog-eared, worn, By alley bins or fields of corn, Read loud, and let your spirit troll, For madmen may just save the soul.