by Fliss
Until the 5th November ’88,
my mother hadn’t thought to make a guy;
we had our sparklers, bonfire on a grate,
a good display of rockets climbing high
enough to rouse a little “Aah!” and “Ooh!”
but not so much to vex the neighbour’s dog.
That year, however, “Here’s a treat for you!”
said Mother and we gathered, all agog.
A guy in striped pyjamas was revealed –
a pillowcase or three made up his skin.
His flesh was Mum’s old tights, yet he appealed
because he had the softest, sweetest grin.
“So, do we burn him?” I enquired, dismayed.
“That’s right!” confirmed my dad and stoked the fire.
I trembled as I drank my cherryade
to think my friend would soon be on the pyre.
Don’t let them burn me, Miss! I heard him speak.
I shan’t, I vowed, then yelled, “Look over there!”
They looked; I ran; I grabbed him with a shriek
and rushed upstairs. I heard my brothers swear
they’d get me, but too late! I locked the door
and fell with Mr. Fawkes upon my bed;
he slid and almost collapsed upon the floor.
I held him tighter, kissed his fraying head.
I heard a blur of voices from outside
but didn’t care cos G. was looking cute
in blue and white. He took another slide;
I caught him, sat him up and smoothed his suit.
Then, side by side, we watched that year’s display.
No movie star nor muscle man was he,
but there was nothing anyone could say
or do to take my guy away from me.