At the conclusion of a book by King,
There’s frequently a raging conflagration.
“Fire purifies.” That’s Ben Mears’ observation.
He’ll get those fucking vampires scurrying!
As bats, perhaps, some targets will take wing,
Though where they’ll fly requires much calculation.
Many will burn in place: no complication.
Oh, what triumphant joy the dawn may bring!
I and my neighbors now are at the end
Of such a book. But no triumphant cry
Is rising from our throats. We must contend
With unforgiving aftermaths — or try.
Deep in resentful regions we descend.
Somebody should have let the vampires lie.