A goblin found an elixir,
and drank it in a trice;
– it changed his spiteful core, and made
him really rather nice.
Unshakeable his knowledge now
that he would truly never
completely fully die, instead
he’d somehow live for ever:
with inexhaustable supply
of life – he could not fully die.
The other goblins, they observed
and saw this pleasant change:
– ‘a passing phase’, they thought – a bit
embarrassing, and strange.
But when they found he could not join
in unkind schemes and sneaky games,
they got annoyed, and hit his head,
and snarled out nasty names;
they thought that such refusing
was actually accusing:
disturbed in their complacent ease
of mischief-making as they please.
‘You don’t support our dubious rules,
but we can make you, you must choose,
and if you don’t agree to do
as told, we’ll smack you ’til your blue.’
But even when they warned they’d kill,
he couldn’t re-corrupt his will,
or vomit out the mystic draught
that had implanted peace of heart –
when pain complete, fresh life would start.
Oh, poor goblin, yet not poor,
but happy, free of hate, secure.