Troll

A face that is weathered

And leathered like glove

A grimacing mug

Only Mother could love

Demeanour that’s best

Described as curmudgeon

Whose favoured pastime

Is to beat heads and bludgeon

Alone under bridge

He is testy and moody

Prefers peace and quiet

It helps him stay broody

The townsfolk avoid him

Stark warnings abound

If dare cross his bridge

It’s your head he will pound

But there is sad irony

In the tale of this troll

A life of tormenting

Has taken its toll

He’d like to retire

To someplace congenial

And take on a job

That is boring and menial

Where no one will bother

Yet also not cower

Perhaps just a nod

If he tries not to glower

He’d be a great neighbour

Unobtrusive and tame

Who minds his own business

And in turn asks the same…