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…
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