A New Poem: Necro-pants

A replica of a pair of nábrók at The Museum of Icelandic Sorcery & Witchcraft.

Pals sit and chat one night—

“I know how to do magic,” one guy says

over a fine meal, the

flicker of fire lighting the night as

well as heating the room.

“Can I have the skin of your legs and feet?”

“What the devil do you want with that?”

“Sure, as long as you’re dead, what does it matter?

but I will tell you, it will make me rich.”

“Rich?”

“Yeah I rob a coin from a hard-up woman, the worse

of the better, then I stick it in the scrotum sack

of the tights I’ll make from you, and wahey!

I’ll be rich for life”

'“Oh… right.”

Oddly the friend thought about it, and maybe,

thinking he would outlive his mad friend,

or maybe he was mad on drink at the time

agreed to the skinning of his lower limbs.

Or maybe he agreed

because he was a real bro, and thought

that if he could help his mate out, 

then what was the harm? 

I doubt it had anything about

fashion… though who wouldn’t like to

be a fine pair of leather trousers?

Besides me, you and everyone with

the smallest bit of sense in their heads.

© Vincent S. Coster 2023