It's all very lighthearted and only the most curmudgeonly person would not find it amusing.
But what if the caller were not a child in a scary mask seeking toffees but someone who had other, less benign, intentions?
Armani suit and calf-skin shoes,
Rolex coiled around his wrist,
a sharp black beard defines his chin,
three blood-red rings adorn his fist,
his neck’s embellished with tattoos
which spiderweb his swarthy skin.
He’s saturnine, tall, lithe and slim:
not how I had imagined him.
His smile is supercilious, cold.
He strokes his smartphone, barks my name,
then looks me over with a frown.
You’re ready, Fool. You’re mine to claim ...
I cower, defenceless, weak and old.
He leans in close to stare me down
with hooded eyes as black as coal:
twin mirrors of an absent soul.