A Dragon Came to My House

A dragon came to my house yesterday,
and scorched the paint right off the back porch door.
And what’s more,
he (if it’s a he) began to bay
like hungry wolves, say maybe two or three.
It frightened me.
I yelled at him, “Hey, dragon! Go away!”

He looked at me and spoke in tones quite bass.
I barely understood a word he said.
The rumble from his head
lacked any tone of clarity or grace.
He sounded like a giant toad,
croaking in some kind of code.
And then he shot his tongue right at my face.

I backed away and shouted, “You big lug.”
“What’s your problem? What’s your beef?”
And to my relief,
he said, “All I want is just a little hug.”
I think that’s what I heard,
or maybe just inferred.
He might have said, “I’ll crush you like a bug.”

I found the nerve to ask him, “What’s your name?”
He said, “It’s Willoughby,”
but as he spoke to me,
he singed my hair with fingerlets of flame.
I jumped and pulled away.
He said, “Please stay.”
And then he hung his fiery head in shame.

I started walking toward him, nice and slow.
He raised his warty head,
and then he said,
“I should have set my breath control to Low.”
“I hope I didn’t sear you.
I just want to be near you.”
“My fearsome look is really just for show.”

I said I’d like to have him for a friend,
and hug him, too, if I
could just reach past his thigh,
or maybe he could stoop, or kneel, or bend,
and try his very most
not to turn me into toast,
then I’m sure we could be buddies ‘til the end.