For some folks, every day is Halloween. I only wish that I were one of those. Alas! Just once a year I make that scene. For some folks, every day is Halloween— And nameless dread is felt as something clean And glorious. Their inner candle glows. For some folks, every day is Halloween. I only wish that I were one of those!
My sainted mom was born on Devils’ Night. We celebrated after dark for years. The things kids do that night are never right— But often merit adolescent cheers. My sainted mom was on the verge of tears Much of those nights, I’m sure. When kids raise hell, No mom’s concern for offspring disappears. I know she prayed – and, boy, did she pray well! Devils like Little Tom would love to tell Such saints as her to pray their evil asses Out of the pit. Can sanctity compel Mercy to rain upon the wicked masses? Can woman saved uplift bad boy – or man? If anyone can manage it, she can.
Bram Stoker’s version earned a lousy score. Sure, he got little Lucy – but so what? Statistically, that’s something to ignore— And, in the end, Van Helsing kicked his butt. Who the fuck was that Dutchman? Just a nut. And all the others: who the fuck were they? Upstanding citizens – and in a rut. Those poor stiffs should have been a breeze to slay. Instead, mere mortal losers found a way To drive the mighty Count, despite his strength, Back to his homeland. Oh, they made him pay! The details I won’t analyze at length. Bram Stoker’s version earned a lousy score. The real Vlad would have slaughtered many more.
I don’t mind drinking with that werewolf crowd— Not as long as the moon is less than full. Although it’s true they’re boisterous and loud, I don’t mind drinking with that werewolf crowd: They’re lots of fun, and I have disavowed The standard views. All prejudice is bull! I don’t mind drinking with that werewolf crowd— Not as long as the moon is less than full.
“There’s hope!” he told the vampire as the stake Hovered and hesitated – and the sun Sank slowly. Oh, she knew that mortals ache For superhuman beauty. Was it fun, Waiting there helpless? Seconds shuffled, one By one, into the vastness of the past. By admiration many were undone. Yes, there was hope indeed! But would it last? The die was rolling in the ether, cast By circumstance – or else necessity. Daylight paralysis was holding fast. Then the sun set. She acted forcefully. She broke his neck – then stomped him into mud. She never drank his foolish mortal blood.
“I self-identify as not a beast!” The werewolf cried, then carried off the child. “Grant me my inner dignity at least: I self-identify as not a beast— And, in my culture, my intended feast Is normal. Adverse judgment drives me wild! I self-identify as not a beast!” The werewolf cried – then carried off the child.
“I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend.”
Hey, I don’t fear the Fiend’s prodigious force: Sentimentality is what I dread— And, boy, he’s on a sentimental course! Hey, I don’t fear the Fiend’s prodigious force! Is he six times as strong as any horse? My problem is the sappy stuff he’s said. Hey: I don’t fear the Fiend’s prodigious force. Sentimentality is what I dread!