I should warn you of the Eastie,

Bedminster’s black-hearted beastie!

Every hundredth year folk will shiver

If they live south of the river.

They’ve heard that souls will disappear,

If at night they wander near

The shadows where the Eastie waits

For hapless locals to meet their fates.

Don’t cross the precinct after dark,

Lest your spine chills at his bark.

So when the red bricks darken to blackest mass,

And shadows flicker across the glass,

Run, run fast! As your ears fill with slavering whines,

Or it could be your spare ribs on which he dines,

The Eastie rarely leaves a scrap behind,

Maybe just an eyebrow or strip of rind.

For a century more, he’ll go away,

His only trace, the smell of decay,

But I can’t describe this fiend from hell,

Because no one’s lived yet to tell the tale.

Copyright Suzanna Stanbury 2008 All Rights Reserved