Old whatshisname
jigs a curly-toed jig
while his victim's head spins
and spins
straw
becomes gold.
It's the same color
as the bulb
behind the lamp shade
on my nightstand.
Good enough for a king
or a child trying to sleep.
And just as I'm nodding off,
old whatshisname
demands a blood sacrifice.
But his victim knows
his secret
and whispers it into his ear.
So old whatshisname
jigs himself in two!
Split right down the middle,
it's the end
of you-know-who.
"Goodnight,"
papa says,
and closes the book.
And his grin
as the light is dimmed
looks just like old whatshisname.