From rotting torso at the noose,
Fierce cries of life were sound.
So born from maiden hanged, was it
With bloodied claws, we found.

I felt to pity it at first,
Until I saw its face.
Oh ghastly thing, it was! No less.
I wished then to erase!

When I had said to let it die,
My wife threw me in place!
She cut it from Tod’s kinder grasp,
And tears fell from her face.

She held it to her case and cried,
“This child we will love,”
And so that creature, on that day,
Came to be known as Glove.

For twas a glove I made it wear,
Upon each wretched claw.
And twas a glove upon its head,
To cover every flaw.

But when my loving wife fell ill,
Glove cried and could not move.
Such wraithlike sounds, obstreperous,
I sent for Docteur Ove.

He said he could not help my wife,
For she was past the cove,
Yet mused that he could take the thing,
We must have known as Glove.

Oh Glove could all but comprehend,
Until Ove took its mask,
But horrified so much, was Ove,
To drink his death from cask!

And so from then, Glove wore its mask,
With hatred on its mind,
For no one taught it how to love,
Which left Glove, rather blind,

Still blinder yet, was I, it seemed,
When Edith kissed old Tod.
I thought that I could **** it then;
Oh how my plan was flawed!

I reached the attic where it lived,
A sharpened knife in grasp,
But as I pushed the door ajar,
With angered shock, I gasped!

The mat it slept upon was gone;
The room was very bare.
My thoughts were that, the beast had left,
To seek a darker lair!

So with cold sweat and fearful heart,
I stumbled from the house.
“Where could that blasted thing have gone?”
I could not help but grouse.

Just then a flock of maggot-pies,
Soared by with doleful song.
I laughed and held the dagger dear
Then fled to right this wrong.

I burst upon the disturbed wood,
Quite red at my poor plight;
Its mat and things lay tossed about,
Yet Glove was not in sight!

I rushed and screamed its beastly name,
From here and there throughout!
But stopped at last, when I could hear
I frightened child, shout.

I ran towards the sound at once,
And found a few young men.
While gathered ‘round a battered Glove,
They beat him, with amens.

“Oh Devil, you have cursed this town!”
The oldest seemed to roar.
And then the others howled along
Far louder than before.

At once, I felt a turn within,
My stubborn, bitter, heart.
I realised I had been the one,
To wrong Glove, from the start.

So I, with dagger in the air,
Chased off the foolish brutes,
Then gathered Glove up in my arms
And carried him en route.

When we had reached our quiet home,
I placed him in my bed,
I couldn’t look upon him yet,
But still, I kept him fed.

He often tried to speak to me
But could no word pronounce
Until I finished up the tea,
And “No!” he did announce.

At first I could not help but smile
“The child speaks at last!”
Yet little did I know, this day,
Would come to be my last.

He pointed at the tea and screamed,
I failed to comprehend--
Until I coughed up specks of blood--
No doctor here to mend.

I saw his eyes were full of fear,
And I returned the same.
He’d poisoned it so long ago,
I knew I was to blame.

I had so many things to say,
But little time to run.
So with my final breath, I said,
“I love you Glove, my son.”