What A Hollow Halloween.
Being the prize pick of the pumpkin patch
Come November comes with a nasty catch,
Being soft and tender, sweet as pumpkin pie
Don't mean Jack when Halloween is nigh.
Once the father came to weigh up his choice
Being top o' the crop gave me no cause to rejoice
But 'twas only when the mother cut me from the vine
This prime pumpkin knew it was the end of the line.
So this orange squash's future's turned to soup,
It cuts me up to see me reduced, scoop by scoop
Until I'm left, a grinning rictus of an empty shell;
Does my tasteless tale turn your insides as well?
What Haunts The White House?
We're fast careering towards Halloween
And a few days later we hope to have seen
An end to the dispiriting Ghastly Horror of 2016.
With a crucial election nigh
Hopes for a change are frighteningly high,
Pray we can exorcise the so-wrong Right guy.
Don's sure to want someone to look
At every way he can cook the rule book,
He needs to win, by hook or by crook.
The polling prospects for Don might look dire
But his supreme self-belief one must truly admire-
Plus his Supreme Court's now bound to back a liar.
Though he doesn't really possess the ghost of a chance
Still he's trying his damndest to deny any votes in advance,
To tell the truth he's relying on flame-proof underpants.
Should it be the will of the hoi polloi
My whole face will be suffused with joy
To see the golden boy become the orange boy.
Then when the blue boy(!) is given the win
I'll try my damndest to keep my joy deep within,
But I guarantee no mask could hide my Cheshire grin.
In the Halloween camp– or spirit- here’s a jaunty little number.
(To the tune of Rocky Horror’s ‘I Can Make You A Man.’)
Can We Lose The Fake Tan?
Weak-minded, criminally unsound,
Will Don leave with red face
When November 3 rolls around?
Since his chances are slim
Despite determined Fox spin
To cover his multiple flaws
He's privately packing his drawers,
Still refusing to listen to his team
And the unwelcome message
That the four year bad dream
Ends with Donald as a has-been.
Don won't be here long, man.
('Cause he's the wrong man.)
He's nasty and vicious, splenetically mean,
He'll wallow, he'll beg,
Bitch and blame postal workers-
Accept mail-in votes, then renege
Without second thought,
But time's short, not-so-Great man,
In just seven days
You'll be a done deal, fake tan.
He upset the queen, he royally f*cked up,
Hopes to snatch victory, dirty devious jerk,
He thinks democratic elections
Will drive Putin berserk,
Voters so unforgiving
He plum cain't understand,
So in just seven days
Ciao baby,
Make way for a better human.
Night Of The Gibbering Dread.
We're fast approaching October thirty-first
When once again good folk will be cursed
By that gnawing feeling of impending dread
As the spirit of gluttony raises its ugly head.
'Twill be the night of Halloween
When every pre-adolescent 'tween
Comes, unbidden, a'rapping at your door-
That ain't the kinda rap you can ignore.
They'll demand a trick or treat,
The trick is- give 'em all they can eat,
So dole out the candies from the bowl,
Better being poor than have an empty soul.
Robotically dish it out and don't dare ask
What sweet child is hiding 'neath that mask?
Just kindly smile while puttin' on your happy face
And pray the overladen urchins don't egg your place.
Watch those impish wee scamps stagger to the gate
Arms trembling to contain the confectionery's weight,
Shake my head and muse 'that fifty bucks didn't go far,'
Damn kids took a bowl full of sugar but left the gate ajar.
Prompt at midnight switch off the porch light-
Witching hour is done, Children Of The Night,
So, all good but poor souls, sit back and enjoy the hush,
Soon 'nough you'll hear some sick kids full-on sugar rush flush.
This started as an entry for Chel Owens A Mused poetry contest but went waaay over
the word limit.
They came a’knocking on my door,
Two kids demanding a sugary score,
One little monster with a slavering jaw-
Another creep extending a covetous claw-
They took every treat I proffered, then more,
Those tricky kids are in cahoots with the candy store.
The little monsters came round on Halloween,
They tricked and treated and picked us clean,
We nicely asked ’em not to pet the pet Wolverine,
We told ’em not to play on the display guillotine-
What a shame their hearing’s not quite as keen.
Smart kids… remains to be seen.
What’s a poor werewolf to do
When his world and the moon turns blue?
As in this mind the lunacy surges
And the brain is beset by unsavoury urges?
I can’t help but prowl the night
And hope my bark’s worse than my bite,
But to my nature I’ve been true
And clearly bitten off more than I can chew.
This rare blood moon has ramped up my compulsion
And ‘neath its light I’m filled with revulsion,
When it comes to regrets, as Sinatra said, I have a few,
Its an issue, like this leg tissue, I’m working through
If I’m ever caught I’ll be Wormwoods bound
Or perhaps, more humanly, the Battersea pound?
My beastly hair-raising episodes I do deeply rue
So I’m keep ’em tightly leashed for a week -or two.
If you come here to trick or treat
We’ve an abundance of treats to eat,
But greedy ghosts and ghouls beware;
Don’t take more than your fair share.
Should you fill your goody bag to the brim
You may find your sunny smile turning grim.
Wolfing our entire supply of peppermints- grossly fulfilling,
But losing a filling on Halloween- painfully chilling,
So if you find our Jawbreakers impossible to resist
Don’t blame us when you visit the dentist.
