A Song of the Barber

Sunrise over Greymouth, the township is aglow,

Chasing out the spectres that wintry nights bestow:

Shadows of prospectors wisp along the river’s brink,

Dreaming of their fortunes, then falling in the drink.

 

The Barber’s down the river, a wicked blanket for the town,

Bitter tears to drown you, an icicle-tipped crown.

Shards of frozen temper poised to pierce your heart,

A blade to cut right through you, a frigid steel-tipped dart.

 

It’s a heartless beast, that Barber, with its devilish caress,

And if you froze within it, it would not care less:

Travel through it at your peril, for it will take its toll,

Wrapping bony fingers of barbed wire around your soul.

 

Wild and woolly Greymouth is waking from its sleep,

Whilst those wicked winds of Westland to the ocean stealthily creep.

The streets, they will be safer when the Barber takes it leave,

And the sunshine over Greymouth brings a dazzling reprieve.

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