Old Pharaoh Blues

On slope of Appalachian clime
A widow swept her porch of grime,
 
The bristle whisk of parchment sweep
Would start to slow as she would weep.
 
When suddenly a ghost appeared,
Egyptian dress and braided beard.
 
The woman held her broomstick tight      
Like she was fixin’  for a fight:
 
"It's you again, Old Pharaoh, dark!
Why do you, widow maker, stalk.        
Is it to brand me with your mark        
So angels know me by my walk?"
 
Old Pharaoh nodded thoughtfully
And raised a hand as if to speak.
 
The widow waited patiently,
But all she heard was branches creak.
 
"Be gone from here, Old Pharaoh, haunt!
Why do you never say a word?
You come and go as if to taunt,
It's not befittin', it's absurd!"

Old Pharaoh crossed his legs midair,
And smoked a pipe that wasn't there.

She swung the broom & brought it down,
It passed right through his vulture's crown.

"If you're not here to marry me,
Or bring a beau that can be wed,
Let's stop pretending, and agree
There's nothing more left to be said!"

The widow huffed while watching him,
The form of Pharaoh faded dim.

He simply smiled as was his way,
The smile and all just blew away.



This is a true story as was told to my sisters & I when I was a wee sprout, by our father about a southern widow woman he knew as a lad.  I have taken liberty while making it into this poem.  Please enjoy. :)