You are a trickster, Old Father Thames. Enticing the little children to play, Amongst your reeds, Upon your bank. Easing their mothers into complacency.
You are a trickster, Old Father Thames. Lapping at the little children's toes. Leading them into your waters, As their mothers smile from above, Forgetting what you are.
You are a trickster, Old Father Thames. Bouying the little children up, Turning eddies into dance partners, And twisting them in merriment, And the mothers look away for a moment.
You are a monster, Old Father Thames. Dragging the little children to your depths. Ensnaring them with weeds, And filling their lungs with filthy sludge. While their mothers watch the tide come in.