Spine-tingling,

With humid heaving,

Softly growling,

Now loudly howling

Is the Thing he left behind.

Story-trusting,

Musket-wielding,

A youth in part,

But with a grown-up heart:

He made a vow to kill its kind.

 

Rifle raising,

Muzzle blazing,

Now reloading,

Then un-loading,

A silent corpse he left behind.

 

Hip-hip-hooraying

And hand upraising,

The boy turned about

And went grinning to his house,

While the Thing went out of mind.

 

Decades passing,

Then the boy, he,

Like Ulysses, traveled home,

And, waiting for him there

Was the thing he left behind.

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