melissaahowells
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He's got a cackle bark when he snarl-speaks. He has half a jack-o-lantern jaw of teeth. When strangers sees him on the empty streets they turn on their heels and high tail it the other way. I'm sure he bays at the moon at night, It wouldn't matter if it were full or not. He'd bark, he'd snap n' bite, for he's a closer cousin to the ripper or the reaper always tripping on some coke or reefer... and you can smell him comin' from a long ways off. For the meanness of him is over-ripe, raw and rotten. He's up all week, long-in-the-tooth, evil-tongued, beguiled, the ghoul, Mister Misbegotten. Claims he's been torn down by the world and insulted by the barrel-full he should have died a hundred times over but still the ugliness in his soul keeps him lone-long-walkin' Mister Half-Dead Misbegotten. He'll try to talk you sweet out of your last meal and rattle your door at three o'clock in the morning with his ghostly ravings without fair warning And then he'll accuse you of every sin in the book, mostly, the ones he's committed If he knows where you live, you will never get rid of him. Mister Ghoulish Grin Misbegotten. work in progress based upon a real person, sadly, someone beyond our ability to help Copyright October 12, 2014 All Rights Reserved By This Author Meloo/Melissa A Howells tilt-a-world Vote for this poem |
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