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The man of the house in his kitchen. P. loves to cook, thank goodness; we’d live on toasted sandwiches and baked beans if it was up to me. I have other, more weighty matters on my mind. Such as the following puzzle.

Ghosties was the name I gave to a post a couple of days ago. After I had written it, the following rhyme was retrieved from somewhere in the archives of my mind and lodged itself in my consciousness as I was trying to sleep:

sly like ghosties
sitting up on posties
eating buttered toasties
smeared with greasies
running down their kneesies
dripping off their feetsies
nasty little beasties!”

It was in a book I had read as a child with very colourful illustrations. Could it have been some sort of Halloween theme? But I don’t know if I have remembered the poem accurately. Google has been no help, I could only find this (obviously older) version:

Three little ghosties’es,

Sat on three posties’es,

Eating buttered toasties’es,

Greasing their fisties’es,

Up to their wristies’es.

Wern’t they beasties’es!


There was also a newer adaptation that has been turned into a picture book. Similar, but not the same. Now I am so wishing I could remember where I first read it.

Such are the important issues I ponder while P. cooks us all dinner.