by Mark Hart

Created on: August 13, 2008   Last Updated: January 22, 2009

Scary Nonsense

Our tale begins one cold fall night

The still air crisp, the full moon bright

Beyond the fields coyotes wail

Their lonesome calls so long and shrill

They scamper in a busy pack

Until they scent their victim's track

Then off they rush all teeth and tails

And chase their prey into the hills.

Deep in the bowels of a darkened cave

Where werewolves howl and demons rave

There dwells a troll bereft of grace

With knotted joints and sallow face

His grimy locks and pointed ears

Reduce the bravest men to tears

Within his skull his eyes glow red

And, methinks, his name is Fred.

Inside an ancient, twisted, oak

Concealed among its gnarly hulk

A spirit dwells whose wispy shape

Is blacker than a blackened cape

At midnights, when the air is still

It oozes out into the chill

To seek lost souls who can't be saved

And drag them down into the grave

Each night as tots doze in their beds

It silently floats above their heads

But with a sigh it soon moves on

Their innocence is far too strong.

Amidst the gloom of a Black Forest hollow

In murky muck where wild boars wallow

The throaty croak of a forlorn toad

Makes your neck hair stand and blood run cold

A gruesome goblin sits and scowls

To ravens' caws and hoots of owls

In full moon's light with bluish hue

He dines upon a mushroom stew

And when the shrill about him peaks

He deftly turns to you and speaks

While holding up his plate of goo

He asks, Would not you have some, too?

In a churchyard overgrown with brush

Where only bats disturb the hush

Lies the entrance to a marble crypt

Its lintel carved with ornate script

Beneath the vault of crumbling stones

Neglected like its trove of bones

There lurks a zombie vile and pale

Passed long ago beyond the veil

Alive, and yet it does not live

Whose
evil thoughts we must forgive

For solitude can drive one mad

But thoughts alone don't make him bad.

Yes, solitude can drive one mad

Or loneliness might make one sad

Just as it did to little Chad

A boy with neither mom nor dad

Nor siblings with whom he could play

And gaily pass the time of day

He never knew a cozy bed

Warm blankets wrapped about his head

For
Chad
was orphaned as a babe

And raised by skunks in a forest cave.

Chad seldom went out in the day

And learned to like the smelly spray

That kept all enemies far away

As merrily they went bout their day

Chad learned to dig for grubs and worms

Not caring for disease and germs

In fact, he felt it rather funny

When earthworms wriggled in his tummy.

Perhaps it is of no surprise

When long before the sun did rise

Young Chad sat up one chilly night

Awakened by

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