When milk turns sour and the time’s not right,
And objects vanish from out of sight,
When noises sound in the dead of night,
The imp’s playing its game.
When doors are locked without a key,
When four socks washed change to three,
When papers shuffle without a breeze,
There’s only one to blame.
When laughter’s heard and no-one’s there,
Or an invisible hand pulls your hair,
And when you sit you ‘miss’ your chair,
It’s the one you shouldn’t name.
With clammy hands that clutch your face,
Then pull your ears out of place,
Then sprinkles water from an empty space…
Mischief is the boggart’s aim.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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