The camp director sat back
High above the camping ground
Rubbed his hands with glee
As he viewed the list
With every child’s name.
All that sugar and spice
And all things nice
Mixed together with the
Sticks and snails
And puppy dogs tails
What a time he would have
He grinned to himself
If only they knew what was to come.
He watched buses arrive
Spew out the willing
Who milled around
Full of excitement and expectation.
Summer camp would never be the same
He would make sure of that.
In a secret place, away from the camp
A large pot steamed
With patience towards boiling.
The bubbling sang it’s own song
In tunes of spells and concoctions
Passed down over time
From director to director.
Each held its own form of magic
From which there was never any return.
At the end of the six week camp
Parents came to collect their charges
Found them tired
Found them heartless
Found them bereft of most things human.
But being parents and doting ones
They were happy to have their child back home
Happy to see the camp a success
Their sons and daughters compliant and quiet
They failed to notice nor really cared
When their children never slept,
Never ate the same.
The camp director licked his lips
Settled back in his luxurious chair
Reflected a moment on the camps success
Sipped once more the nectar he loved
Cast an eye over his spoils
There’s enough he thought
Till the next summer camp.