On All Hallow’s Eve
A spirit arose,
Who now had an itch
Where once was a nose.

Where nostrils had been
A tickle was hatched.
A stout little fellow
That couldn’t be scratched.

Like thoughts you can’t think,
Or songs you can’t sing;
An itch you can’t scratch
Is a terrible thing.

Poor Bertram just moaned,
“Oh woe, woe is be”;
For, having no nose
His “M’s” became “B’s”.

He snorted a feather
To lighten the curse,
But this didn’t help,
"It just bade thigs worse."

He scoured the kitchen
For something to use…
The whisk and the beaters
Just left a big bruise.

To rid his façade
Of this prickly sensation
He grabbed random items
In sheer desperation.

Sandpaper mittens;
Bituminous coal;
And fingernails tied
To a twenty foot pole.

Nothing he tested
Provided relief;
Even attempts at
Suspending belief.

When fevered frustration
Caused Bertram to SHOUT!
The twitch disappeared
From his absentee snout.

Sometimes a tingle
Just needs a good scare.
You simply can’t scratch…
A nose that’s not there.


©2007 R. O’Rourke


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