George Bogglington and the Ghost

George Bogglington and the Ghost:

George Bogglington and the Spook

It is quite true I have been dead for the past seven years,
Yet there are those who surely deny this ghastly truth
Who insist upon their righteousness in ignorance.
George Bogglington is one obstinate in such errors;
She observes that catching a bus is living proof,
That only those who breathe use public conveyance.
To George I maintain that I’m as dead as a doornail;
My uncoiled spirit has passed beyond the earthly pale.
Bogglington scoffed: “You don’t believe in ghosts!”
Rudely rhetorical, her dogma would not be brooked’
Though I’d told her I saw the departed everywhere.
George asserted, “I have seen no airy, spiritual hosts.
No ethereal echoing sprite has ever had me spooked.”
“But, George,” I reasoned, “None would ever dare.
For you’d swipe at the air, gruff, murderous bully,
Alarming the gentle sylphs, turning them chilly.”
“It’s not me who chills the putrid, pallid perished.
George insisted, “They turn dead cold in the ground.
If they have spirits they’re trapped in dank earth.”
“Bogglington, ghosts have left bodies they cherished.
They are not entombed in some worm-filled mound.
They swap the corpse for infernal or heavenly berth.”
“What philosophy is this?” chuckled smirky George.
“Heaven and Hell are engendered in a fantastic forge.”
“Good Lord, do you utterly deny life after death?
George, would you sleep dead for all of eternity,
Flung in chaos, a box of bony, broken fragments?
Scattered with the smashed earth to a void breadth?”
“What would I care if I’m dead for further finality?
Hyperbolic metaphors don’t prove your existence.”
“But George, if I don’t exist with whom do you argue,
To prove I don’t exist in a perceptible milieu?”
“I deny that you are dead. You only intend to scare.
You think ghosts have more authority than the living.
Or to amuse yourself by my girlish bafflement.”
Bogglington was intractable in denial living air.
“No need for bafflement; phantoms prefer partying.
Every Friday night we revel in diaphanous merriment.”
She stared in harsh, defiant askance right through:
“Pyjama parties in cemeteries? Is that true?”
“Sometimes we do not wear pyjamas, but sheets.
They have holes for our eyes and move in the breeze.
We float on the wind, eerily, plaintively whistling.”
“Nonsense!” sneered George.”These fanciful feats.
You could lift your beer, pies and buttered peas.
How could such wisps signal a bus when leaving?
No driver would stop for filmy ghosts in pyjamas.
Without your sheet there’s less reason to stop the bus.”
“Do not be concerned how I’d hail an omnibus.”
“Besides, where would you pocket your fare?”
Unrelenting, George held to her sceptical guns.
“Oh, foolish girl, I am a woo-sounding succubus;
I fly, without need for rolling bus or tram to bare.
When I return to my haunts, I begin with a lunge.
Whether in sheet or pyjamas, I’m free as a bird.”
“No! The dead would never be so utterly absurd.”
“Indeed, George, death redeem from further folly.
But we spooks who hover in the ether are erroneous.
Those who doubt us peeve us, so we say woo and boo.”
Boo frightens me a little, but woo is just too silly.
If that’s the best ghosts can do, they’re gratuitous.”
“We also make rooms as cold as the roof of an igloo.”
“Then I can say poof to you as I turn on the heater.”
She then said poof and I saw that I wasn’t there.

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