The Insect God

O What has become of Millicent Frastley?
Is there any hope that she is still alive?
Why haven’t they found her? It’s rather ghastly
To think that the child was not yet five
The dear little thing was last seen playing
Alone by herself at the edge of the park
There was no one with her to keep her from straying
Away in the shadows and oncoming dark
Before she could do so, a silent and glittering
Black motor drew up where she sat nibbling grass
From within came a nearly inaudible twittering
A tiny green face peered out through the glass
She was ready to flee, when the figured beckoned
An arm with two elbows held out a tin
Full of cinnamon balls, she paused, a second
Reached out as she took one, and lifted her in
The nurse was discovered collapsed in some shrubbery
But her reappearance was not much use
Her eyes were askew, her extremities rubbery
Her clothing was stained with a brownish juice
She was questioned in hopes her answers revealing
What had happened, she merely repeatedly said
‘I hear them walking about on the ceiling'
She had gone irretrievably out of her head
O feelings of horror, resentment and pity
For things which so seldom turn out for the best
The car, unobserved, sped away from the city
As the last of the light died out in the west
The Frastley’s grew sick with apprehension
Which a heavy tea only helped to increase
Though the felt it was scarcely genteel to mention
The loss of their child, they called in the police
Through unvisited hamlets the cars went creeping
With its head lamps unlit and its curtains drawn
Those natives who happened not to be sleeping
Heard it pass and lay awake till dawn
The police with their torches and notebooks descended
On the haunts of the underworld, looking for clues
In spite of their praiseworthy efforts, they ended
With nothing at all in the way of news
The car, after hours and hours of travel
Arrived at a gate in an endless wall
It rolled up a drive and stopped on the gravel
At the floor of a vast and crumbling wall
As the night wore away hope started to languish
And soon was replaced by all manner of fears
The family twisted their fingers in anguish
Or got them all damp from the flow of their tears
They removed the child to the ballroom, whose hangings
And mirrors were streaked with a luminous slime
They leapt through the air with buzzings and twangings
To work themselves up to a ritual crime
They stunned her and stripped off her garments, and lastly
They stuffed her inside a kind of pod
And then it was that Millicent Frastley
Was sacrificed to the insect god