The Bogie Man Under My Bed

The Bogie Man Under My Bed

He don’t rattle chains or howl at the moon

he sits in the still, where the dark grows soon

his breath smells of soil, old damp and dread

and I know what he wants when I lie in bed

He don’t knock once or whisper my name

he just waits in the hush, plays a patient game

I saw his eyes through the slats one night

they caught my heart and froze my fight

Mam said don’t fret, there’s nothing there

but she never looked, never dared stare

his fingers scratched when the night got deep

I press my hands over my mouth, don’t make a peep

He feeds on fear and left over supper

spilt dreams, cold chips and ghost of a dream

he licks the plate of a frightened mind clean

and leaves the spoons and forks behind

He don’t want light, he don’t need space

he crouches low with a shadow’s face

and when I dream, he sours the good

spits it out like only he could

I once tried to run, once tried to shout

but he stitched my voice from inside out

now I sleep with one eye wide

I don’t ask who’s there, I just let him hide

He’s not in tales, not drawn in books

not caught in traps or frightened by looks

he’s old as guilt, sharp as dread

and he’s been with me since my youth fled

Don’t say my name when the silence grows

don’t walk too soft when the bedroom knows

he’s not gone, he’s just been fed

the bogie man under my bed