The Gruntled Demon


A demon called Maladius
Was feeling pestilential,
And, being a demon, he was wracked
With angst so existential,
Obnoxiousness in demonkind
Is thought to be essential,
So that he came to Albion
Was rather providential.

Smallpox and plague and dysentry,
He revelled in them all,
Streptococcus and E. coli
At his beck and call,
He gave them buboes on their bums,
Erdrejans to appall,
But the cakes of Pontefract
Made the demon stall.

He raged, he roared, he stamped the ground,
The very earth did shake,
But the warriors of Albion
Did not quail or quake,
They called for scones and lots of tea,
They urged the town to BAKE,
And boldly used a catapult
To fill his mouth with cake.

Now, down in hell, where demons live,
Cake is somewhat rare,
For they subsist on severed limbs,
And deep-fried human hair,
So, being unversed in subtleties,
Untutored in fine fare,
‘Oh taste sensation!’ cried the demon,
‘A feast beyond compare!’
And when the cake was gobbled up,
Maladius was changed,
And as he sat digesting it,
He seemed much less deranged,
‘I’ve spent too long,’ the demon said,
‘From humankind estranged,
My dear Lord Hugo, d’you think perhaps
A truce can be arranged?’

So now he lives in Albion,
And when it’s half-past three,
He beseeches all the Harts,
Contrite, on bended knee.
The gruntled demon weeps hot tears
For ravaging the free,
And meekly pleads for yet more cake,
And another spot of tea.