(Poem)
"An unsettling face,
Burnt by what could only be hellfire;
He comes at night,
His hair like locks of haywire.
Disguised as a human,
He collects the thumbs of children.
It is your time now, little Poorvi,
To loose your thumb to the villain."
The night had passed,
Little Poorvi woke to her thumb, missing.
The orphanage elders didn't care,
So she went for the boogeyman, chasing.
"In the shack at the end of the cemetery,
Just as crooked as his face.
That's where the boogeyman lives,"
Said the other orphans whose hands remained defaced.
"He sleeps in the morning;
A little witch alone guards the path.
They who stay hidden from her,
The boogeyman's thumb, they shall hath."
Poorvi bathed herself
In the ashes of the cemetery.
She crawled on the floor of the dead,
To remain hidden from the adversary.
At last she reached the crooked shack.
The boogeyman's snores filled the silence.
Poorvi reached the rotten mattress,
Where lay the boogeyman without vigilance.
From her satchel, she took out a knife
She had once stolen from the kitchens of the orphanage.
On her quest she sawed through two languished thumbs
Like a sweet little carnage.
She returned to the orphanage,
Her satchel bloodied by her rare collection.
The orphans praised their villain,
Deceived by her noble inflection.
The first thumb in the satchel
Belonged to the widowed father.
The second thumb in it,
To his innocent little daughter.
A young thumb was the usual;
So along with the others, she buried.
The old ones were rare;
In happiness, she flurried.
In the cemetery's shack,
The poor old man woke to a dread.
All his fingers were missing;
How was he to bury the dead?
"Oh, my little angel,
How am I to get us bread?
Oh, what evil does this to the broken?"
The distressed old father said.
The world had once again judged
By the looks of the innocent.
The little psycho lived on,
Having cut her own thumb like a diligent.