A Dali in Delhi

as I was walking through the gloom
a Delhi night, without a moon
I heard a cry, as from a loon
but could not spy the creature

“ ‘Tis Whom?” I said, all quivery
my voice of scant delivery
my constitution shivery
(but still could see no feature)

there came a creaking, and a squeaking
as from a chest of wooden drawers
then, ’round the corner, something peeking
and blood was oozing from its pores

it had a black sardonic grin
its head towards me swiveled
its rotting bones were caving in
its eyes so dark and shriveled

upon its chest, and down its legs
were doors and cabinets
and things of brass, and wooden pegs
and ornaments elaborate

its breath so foul, but it conveyed
a misery of sorrow
its drawers and cabinets open stayed
in want of Souls to borrow

I stood transfixed, within this alley
and hardly dared to move
it seemed a creature, made by Dali
escape-ed from the Louvre

it creaked and clacked, and came so near
we almost did embrace
and I, so rooted in my fear
did stare into its face

and now I knew just what it wanted
my essence, it would steal
to fill its drawers and cabinets haunted
my sorry soul, its meal.