It happens only once every few years,
Thank goodness, and not in-between,
An event that elicits my worst fears -
Full moon on this night, Halloween.

On the back of my hand is a pentagram;
It's a difficult thing to refute.
The gypsy said my future was programmed,
Every month I would end up hirsute.

I can feel that my five-o-clock shadow
Is three days ahead, there's no doubt,
As I howl at the moon out the window
And my nose lengthens into a snout.

My nails are looking more daggered,
And my canines are sharpening up,
My countenance morphs into haggard,
I'm a seriously unsightly pup.

As I slaver and scramble on all-fours,
The neighbors are puzzled and ask,
Greeting me with a smile at their front doors,
"Hey, man, where’d you get the great mask?"

But I'm really a bona fide lycanthrope,
Not some kid out to play "trick-or-treat",
And I'll tell you, there's virtually no hope
I'll favor candy over red meat.

10/31/2001

Posted on 10/31/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt