The Feast of Children

The feast is tonight, yearly delight,
Our family gathers around the fire,
Young and the old; both weak and the bold,
And some just about to retire,

While they’re all chattering gladly,
The young listen to the old,
They’re expected to enjoy and revel,
“Have fun but do as you’re told.”

Our leader stands, and raises his voice,
At once we join in with his song,
It tells an old joke, of mirrors and smoke,
Of things going comically wrong,

Now we race down the hill,
Gathering speed to be first,
Not to worry or even to hurry,
Being last isn’t the worst.

The village seems empty before us,
Doors have been left open wide,
Those older ignore the inviting doors,
Our feast it isn’t inside,

We circle round hardly a sound,
Large water barrels, covered in hide,
They leave every year, mostly in fear,
Some sweet and tasty tribute inside,

We gather around, small tribute found,
Each member selects a new toy,
The feast begins, our delighted screams,
As our strange cutlery we deploy,

Sharp claws and long fangs sprout,
Wryly, I now howl to everyone,
“Now love children as much as the rest,
But I never could eat a whole one.”