Mayhem, Maybe

When we're working nights, the village round

the old church becomes scary town.

All curtained windows and bolted doors

but never a eye to see

as us fairy folks sweep from the hill.

Never caught us and never will.

Pulling roses and daffodils

mayhem in the high degree.

The blacksmith chased us all to ground.

They searched all night we were never found.

The tinker boys and the sheriff's men

shaking the tallest tree.

And we sat and watched the women hide.

Laughed so much we split our sides.

Scattered horses that they would ride

mayhem in the high degree.

We crossed through fields of midnight green

often heard but seldom seen.

Tore along hedges,stripping leaves

no-one could quite agree

whether we came from north or south.

We stole the screams from out their mouths

and go where no man would allow

mayhem in the high degree.

Like scaly carp and feathered swan

to nature's world we do belong.

We ride the thin winds of the night

and set dark spirits free.

We terrify the mare and foal.

The fox stood still and far too bold.

So we strung him up, brush neatly folded;

mayhem, maybe.