Let me detail, for you now,

Atrocities absurd.

Listen of this massacre.

Harken! Every word.

In the early autumn,

When chill wind begins to churn,

Groups of people stalk the night,

‘Neath Moon’s ethereal burn.

Armed with knives, they slice the night,

-Their chosen tool of crime-

To torture many vicitms,

In dark and dreary time.

First they use their tools,

To isolate the one,

Whom they feel deserves it most,

They laugh and call it ‘fun’.

They plunge their knives into the skin,

And saw and hack and scream,

In delight, for this night,

And its twisted dream.

Then with hands, bare and raw,

They squish into the guts,

And revel in the slick of slime,

And continue making cuts.

And by the time the work is done,

Their victims’ faces gaunt,

Some in pain or missing teeth,

Or sick with ghostly haunt.

And for good measure in the dark,

They light a single match,

To burn within and end the deed,

Then, leave the pumpkin patch.



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