Mr Bojangles
Mr Bojangles horror stories
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valkyriekerryau
valkyriekerryau Horrotica
Autoplay OFF   •   3 months ago
Mr Bojangles They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

Mr Bojangles

Mr Bojangles

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

A fixture in the old town of New Orleans.

No one cared to ask him his name, a human mannequin.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

Perched on a wooden stool, staring lifelessly

At life floating by. He had no story of his own to tell.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles,'

His swarthy skin and black eyes stared unblinkingly

From his wooden pew between the bar and the barbers.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

Unmoved by the Mardi Gras carnival or endless parade

Of mindless bees swarming the streets; gossiping, existing.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

No one knew how he got the name, nor did they care.

He was the town's freak, an outcast! Children threw stones.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

Parents would warn their cheeky offspring to behave,

Or the dark figure would come and steal their souls in the night.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles,'

He never seemed to age, never seemed to move or speak.

Always in the same clothes, rags of brown and white, dirty.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

Dancers would adorn him with masks on festive, noisy nights.

They would be gone the next day, but he remained frozen in time.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

Remembered by generations young and old alike, never ageing.

An enigma, a piece of heritage. Unfed, homeless perhaps, still.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles.'

His mind locked down, rigid, solid. Seeing from a distance.

Suffering eternally, punishment for suffering inflicted long ago.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles,'

When the Priestess found her daughter ruined and dying.

Dragged from his whiskey stool by a torrential whirlwind,

Tied in a circle of ash, sprayed in the blood of screaming fowl,

Drowned by the squealing chants of anger and deafening revenge.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles,'

As his soul fell from his mind, cursed by the blood of his victim.

Forced into excruciating stillness, locked in a starving, aching doll.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles,'

On the day the Priestess died, and his body withered and waned.

They called him, 'Mr Bojangles,'

As he succumbs to the agony of decades and cruel, excruciating pain.

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