Here’s Some Rotten Poetry For Halloween

Here’s Some Rotten Poetry For Halloween

Some horrible, no good, very bad poetry should put you in the right mood for Halloween.

I have always believed that Halloween should be accompanied by an amorphous, creeping horror—the sort that leaves the hair on the back of your neck standing up, and compels you to cast your eyes about the room desperately in search of an exit. It’s a delicious feeling, and one I enjoy inspiring in others.

To wit: my poetry.

Tell me, did you feel a seasonally-appropriate sense of dread encroach upon your heart as you realized you clicked on an article that is almost entirely comprised of original poetry? Oh, my dear reader, it’s too late for you now. Even if you should click away, the depraved ramblings of a madman will forever be lodged in the browser history of your soul.

They say the only way out of Hell is through…and what worse Hell can there be than this? Read on. Press forward to the end. What other gruesome discoveries await you?

A Poem For Rotten Kids

Young Johnny murdered all his friends.
He brought them all to grisly ends.
‘Twere some he stabbed and some he shot,
And some he clubbed and left to rot.

When Johnny saw what he had done
He knew he’d have to hide his fun.
He would be in jail forever
If Mom saw the limbs he’d severed.

So Johnny put them in a pile—
Stacked every corpse of every child—
And doused them all in gasoline
To cover up his murder scene.

Too bad for Johnny and his plan—
He stood too near the petrol can.
So when he bent to strike the match
Up Johnny went like dryest thatch.

So when you build a fun’ral pyre
To cover crimes by cleansing fire
There’s one important thing to do:
Make sure you don’t get fuel on you.

A Poem for Rotten Parents

At times in your life
Be you husband or wife
You’ll realize you don’t like your kids.
Don’t be despairing
If you start swearing
At each tear from your baby’s eyelids.

If they don’t mind you
Put that behind you
Don’t let your darlings make you irate:
Far better to sell
Than scream and yell.
Children fetch a nice price as of late.

For whatever reason
Kids are in season
Among secret, select clientele.
They’re willing to pay
And they’ll take away
The wee angels who make your life hell.

They pay you in gold
For the child you’ve sold,
Not the paper you’d get from a bank.
It’s legal tender,
Go on a bender.
And remember it’s me you should thank.

Now after the sale
If you start to quail
You must give it two days at the least.
I think you will find
That your peace of mind
Will return now the children have ceased.

If you change your tune—
Just two days? So soon!—
There are options that we can pursue.
They’ll want their gold back,
and if there’s a lack,
A whole kid might not come back to you.

Best give it some thought,
What you might have bought,
Despite any doubts which may linger.
What harm’s there to try?
Just watch what you buy,
And baby might just lose a finger.

A Poem for Rotting People

I got myself a nasty bite
From some weirdo late last night.
Since then I haven’t felt so well.
I think I need to rest a spell.

It’s getting hard to concentrate
And I’m starved though I just ate
My legs don’t seem to work so good
My arms are stiff like cords of wood

And does it stink or is that me?
It seems like everyone I see
Can hardly bear to be around
So I just drag them to the ground.

I try to say some simple word
But all they hear are “aaagh” and “urrrr”
Gosh, now look what I am doing
I am, absent-minded, chewing.

And seems I’ve made an awful mess
Of this poor lady and her dress
Then she gets up and walks away
Without so much as “hi” or “hey.”

And though by now she’s missing half
Of her thigh and all her calf
She’s making decent time toward
A group of us—or no, a horde.

We mill about and then we see
A confused but certainly
Delicious group of walking food
Who turn to run, oh my how rude.

A bunch of them have guns and bats
But miss our heads and that is that
We rip a few of them apart—
I got to eat one fella’s heart.

Oh my, it’s been a pleasant day.
It could have gone another way
And as our feast comes to an end
I’m glad I’ve made so many friends.

Neal Dewing lives and works in Portsmouth, Virginia. He is the co-host of The Fifth Estate, a podcast examining culture and politics.
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