Not suitable for people who don’t like the word fuck. Sorry.

Get one thing straight: I’m not a fucking satyr
And fucking is the operative word.
There’s a distinction, and it fucking matters
I know the fucking stories that you’ve heard
Of fucking goat-men, lurking in the forest
And fucking anybody they can find
Without consent. I get the fucking horrors
Thinking of how I’ve fucking been maligned.
But I am not a fucking sex offender
Don’t have a fucking permanent erection.
So really, what the fuck is your agenda
Putting me in the fucking rapist section
Of legend? I might fucking try to scare you
But only when I’m in a fucking mood
And if you’re lost I’ll show you fucking where you
Need to go. Because I’m fucking good.
So fuck off with this fucking defamation
That’s not me in that fucking Roman porn
And next time, check your fucking information:
I’m not a fucking satyr, I’m a faun.

I’ve got sharp horns
Like any bull
But mine can’t gore
And maim and kill
My enemies
In altercations:
They’re more of
A decoration.

Or perhaps
They’re here to say
“That’s not a cow
So keep away”
My horns point in,
They’re quite unique
They tell you that
Your outlook’s bleak.

For if I find
I must defend
Myself, I use
The other end.
You want to fight?
No problem, pal!
I’ll just deploy
My arsenal.

I lift my tail
And let it fly:
Corrosive dung
Right in your eye
So reconsider
Your attack
You give me shit?
I’ll give shit back.

You’d think it would be cumbersome.
It’s really not. When I had one
Magnificently russet brush,
I thought it beautiful enough.
But with the years my wisdom grew
And soon I’d grown another two
Then three, then four, then five, then six
And with each one, I learned more tricks.
I found that I could change my form
Be lizard, falcon, fish or worm
I breathed the water, rode the wind
Went naked, feathered, scaled and finned.
And now one hundred years have passed,
And I’m a nine-tailed fox at last
I’m ready for humanity…
But are you ready, dears, for me?

We’re not all of us bearded old buffers with tall pointy hats
But the way we’re depicted, of course you would never know that.
You see, representation: it matters, and we’ve been done wrong.
A gnome who’s not male, pale and stale doesn’t seem to belong.

And the fishing rods! Where did that come from? It’s just a cliché!
We’re not fishers, we’re miners! (well most of us are, anyway.)
We are underground creatures, we don’t stand around on the grass.
These ridiculous caricatures are just lacking in class.

So, don’t buy into stereotypes with that pointy hat stuff!
If you want good gnome representation, it’s easy enough:
Just get rid of the ornaments, then you’ll be getting it right
If we really came into your garden, we’d stay out of sight!

I can’t go outside
When the sun is too bright
My skin turns to stone
When exposed to the light

I’m not very clever
And not very fast
In a contest of wits
I will always come last

I’m easily recognised:
Ugly as sin
You’re not really in danger
From me and my kin

So cross over my bridge
And explore in my cave
Since the risk is so small
You don’t need to be brave.

I’ve got very sharp teeth
I can see in the dark
I can smell human blood
Just as well as a shark

And if I’m being honest,
I don’t like your odds:
I’m a child of the Jötnar
Who terrorised gods

But to keep you complacent
Was always my goal
So please, don’t be afraid
Of a stupid old troll!
https://soundcloud.app.goo.gl/aHMK3

In Scandinavian folklore the Hulder are the hidden people. The descendants of the children Eve hid from God because she was ashamed of them being dirty.

(Happy Pride month, by the way!)

It’s possible you haven’t heard about me
My mum was a god-fearing woman, you see
And I’m talking hardcore: like, biblical guilt
Apparently, every last thing was her fault.
Including us: some of my siblings and I:
We never could please her. We really did try.
But she said we were dirty; not all of us though
What the difference she saw was, I really don’t know
But some of us were just… disgusting to her.
When God came to visit, the ones she preferred
They were proudly presented, all shining and clean
While the rest of us quietly waited unseen
We tried not to hate her, at least not at first
She wanted the best for us. She had been cursed
And we were corrupt and unworthy of love
But she tried to protect us from wrath from above.
I don’t think that mum ever quite understood
That respectable isn’t the same thing as good.
But God saw us anyway, cowering,
forbidden
And said to our mother that we must stay hidden
From her. Nevermore must we come in her sight
I think, in her mind, this just proved she was right:
And we were unclean in the eyes of the Lord
And although we existed, were better ignored.
Oh but mother, you’re wrong. If you’d look, we’re still there.
Not hidden and dirty, but shining, elsewhere.

I have to say, I find it odd
You don’t appreciate the sod:
You never thank the grass and mud
That holds you up. Perhaps you should.
You never think it might attack
Until you step upon my back:
And then you’re standing, stuck in place
And staring blankly into space
Or trying, frantically to find
The path you’ve somehow left behind
I’ll get you lost. I’ll spin you round.
Although I look like solid ground,
I’m not. So be afraid of me.
Respect the sod. Tread carefully.

Poludnica is a Polish personification of sunstroke.

It’s a beautiful day
Come and talk to me
In the sunshine
Don’t you just love the sunshine?
Don’t you just love
Talking to a pretty girl in the sunshine?
So talk to me

What crops are you growing?
Tell me about all the crops you are growing.
Barley and wheat, surely there’s more than that!
Tell me more
Tell me how you sow the seeds
Tell me how you scare the birds
Tell me how you tend the crops
Tell me in the sunshine
Tell the pretty girl in the sunshine
Don’t mind the heat
The pounding in your head
The drying of your mouth.
Stay here, in the beautiful sunshine
And talk to a beautiful girl
A beautiful girl with a scythe

Yes, I too have a harvest to gather
But that’s nothing to worry about
All you need to worry about
Is talking to a pretty girl in the sunshine
You do like talking to pretty girls in the sunshine
In the heat of the day
In the noon of the day
Until at last you find that you haven’t got anything else to say
And then
I’ll gather you in.

They say a child conceived in lust
In sweaty and forbidden joy,
Can’t call its soul its own. It must
Be ours. And whether girl or boy

Or neither, it will be a slave
To sensual urges, all its life
It might be clever, strong and brave
But always dogged by constant strife.

Such people are the Lilim’s brood
They told you this, and it was true
But one fact they did not include:
That’s everyone. That’s all of you.

It’s baffling. They come here
And queue for hours and hours
Just to get the chance to climb
For climbing’s sake alone

And mostly, just this mountain
I dont know why it’s special
There’s many other mountains here
But they all choose the one

I live on. I was frightened
At first. I thought they’d come here
To find, perhaps to kill me, but
That wasn’t it at all.

They seem to just like climbing
As high as they can manage
They’re really quite inept at it,
And hundreds of them fall.

They never seem to notice
Me watching, as they struggle
To reach the highest point of all
And then… go down again.

Sometimes I leave them footprints
To find outside their campsite
To see if they will realise
But always, they explain

That this is just a bear track
A prank. An indentation
Left by some falling debris or
Some other explaination.

It cannot be a yeti
They reassure each other:
Believing in the yeti would
Be cause for consternation

And ridicule. It’s madness
Caused by fatigue and hunger
The thought I might be up here’s just
Too much for them to bear.

One day I’ll leave the mountain
Go down into their country
And when I find it, I’ll pretend
That none of them are there.