There was a little house on end of the lane

do not be fooled by the 'little'ness

for there is hardly much innocence to this little house

Hear them wailing at night

hear them wild cries and dim growls

and the bellowing of the monsters inside

Have been to the house?

It is no house, it is but a theatre

a theatre of roaring lions

of fiery red, flaming orange and deep dead blues.

There sits an aging woman at the foot of a chair

the dispassionate girl, 

and the great old lion.

The lion has his fingers crossed like the king

about to deliver justice,

his eyes glisten with too much to drink

like the hair of his great mane.

Some say he was a poet

who lost his fiery pen on quest, for wisdom.

The woman knows, I suspect,

the whereabouts of the poet lion.

Her old eyes have a quaint shine of old love

as she sings a melancholy tune

echoed by the tales of the old poet

He knew many a hundred stories

he knew names of every great man

 he knew beasts and he knew trees

he knew how deep every ocean could be

and he knew beauty, like no one sees

Spoke the lion of old songs and spells

his wisdom was deeper than the deepest hell. 

The glorious days set years ago

The mane has lost its golden glow

the eyes are water pools.

The lights are flickering feeble

like those in the eyes of the woman

The girl was free,

This was no prison,

but this old lion

and this old woman

you see they were chained together,

by a tarnished old chain

as heavy as the years

a chain the girl could never see.