I was reading a book relevant to my PhD research yesterday, and happened upon the delightful name Gabriel Gostwyk. He was some dude in 17th-century England who may have owned an alchemical manuscript.

In the silly poem that crept out of my pen inspired by his name, however, he became something more sinister. I will share it here because it’s silly. Thursday silliness!


He Does What He Likes

Gabriel Gostwyk baked a pie
and sang his wife a lullaby
Gabriel Gostwyk stitched her lips
up tight, drank tea in careful sips.
Gabriel Gostwyk laughed to hear
her muffled screams of rage and fear.

Gabriel Gostwyk’s under your bed.
Gabriel Gostwyk wants you dead.



  1. Hee! My kind of poetry (my tastes haven’t evolved since I was eight). Do you know what Gostwyk means?

    1. I should do more rhymed poetry. ๐Ÿ˜€ Sadly, I have no idea what Gostwyk means – I assume it has no connection to ghosts, at least.

    1. Thanks! ๐Ÿ˜€

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