But the tree was the home of an impLike the tree, he was gnarled and gimpBut this wee little manWho called himself BranIn the magicks was hardly a wim....When he saw his poor home, how he cursedHe was filled with a terrible thirst'twas vengeance he cravedWith a cackle depravedHe set about doing his worst.He hobbled on up to the clubTo return, with interest, their snubSince the patrons were lassesWith firm, well-toned assesHe also had hopes for a rub.The receptionist, whose name was Joan,Said. The last time was at the Christmas Party, when she had snogged Bruce. It had gone no further, as Bruce’s wife worked in the same lab, and she had been watching. Had she not been, Cheryl would happily have had sex with Bruce. He was no Adonis, but he had rugged looks that attracted women, especially the lonely women like Cheryl.Strange how the gin bottle seemed so light. Surely she couldn’t have drunk it all yet? Cheryl needed more. With another glance at the machine, she moved past it to where. More

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