There's a tale of man, not often told,
Who lived on a lonely moor.
It was in winter, harsh and cold,
When came a knock at his door.

"Who goes there?" was what he said.
But there came no reply.
And so he just went back to bed.
He needed some shut-eye.

It came again, the rapid knock,
When long gone was the sun.
"If you are there, why don't you talk?"
Asked he in no patient tone.

Again there came no sound at all
But the wailing of the wind.
Out the window he saw a doll
Whose round and red face grinned.

"Let me in! Let me in!" the doll-thing cried at once.
"It's cold, it's cold! I just might freeze
In this coldest of cold months!"

"Begone! You're not welcome here!"
Came the sound of his retort.
But that doll would merely leer.
Its duty it wouldn't abort.

"I have here tools of flame and fire!"
The doll-thing shouted out.
"Tinder, kindling, fit for a pyre,
And logs both slender and stout!"

The old man covered up and shivered
Against the frost and fright.
He wished as he wept and quivered
The doll would vanish from sight.

"If only my granddaughter would return
With the firewood from the shed
Before the doll-thing chooses to burn
Me alive until I'm dead!"

Meanwhile, his granddaughter continued to peer
Through the frosty glass.
"What is it, Grandpa? What's your fear?"
She worriedly, unhurriedly asked.

I know not what happened then,
But I doubt that it was good.
Just be wary with forgetful men
You may be misunderstood.

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