As coddled cattle slothfully graze,
The ambient air grew silent, still
Then off in a distance hear the slight rumble!
As longer and louder it grew to a roar,
Then on the horizon, hovering while seeming to linger,
Closer, closer it came with a rage.
Lasting mere minutes though seemed an hour.
Hell hath no fury like what God wrath!
But this time the terror was not strictly storm limited
Wait! Let’s hesitate; recount the hideous history
A family of vain, but villainous venomous vampires
Drac, the dreaded deadly demon, definitely the boss,
Blac, the beautiful black bionic brother of the clan;
This satiric sacrament is of that sarcous sarcoid sucker, Sac
While nakedly napping negligently nowhere near norm,
Uncovered by the torrent tornado two-hundred years later,
Insatiably, Sac began to search as a sagacious surgeon
Maybe modern morality mischievously muddled his tedious task
For on this native noon all numinous nubile nymphs under nine
And so as the saving salutary sun began to rise
Then there she stood sultry, staidly sentrying the cigar store
She’s heinously homely holding a handful of panatela.
Silently, slowly stealing closer ‘til suddenly he sprang
But no fluid would flow through this homely hunk of firewood,
Thrusting and thrashing though each time torridly thwarted
With the sun’s radiant rays rising rapidly astern,
Till today you hear his wakening wail, though distinctly distorted,
THE MORAL :
If you set certain standards, and they’re nowhere in sight,
Where willowy wind swept wheat
Sways as hair on horses manes.
Shadowed skies show yellow
With that frightfully familiar haze.
Wind waning a warning
To indigenous inhabitants chill.
A single silencing sound
That causes the most courageous to crumble.
Towards the hosting heavens
In frightened feathered flight birds did soar.
Forged the furious funnel cloud
Looking like a big black fault finding finger.
With flurry, and fury
A wonderful wild beast uncaged.
Five minutes, maybe ten
A twisting, turning, tall tornado tower.
For death and destruction
Left a withering wake of aftermath.
As from a dormant shallow shroud
A long lost monster was remorsefully remitted.
Of the famous family, Ula,
Whose masochistic origin remains a murky mystery.
Whose feared and fabled bat-like bite
Engorges their victims who excruciatingly expire.
Who’s repeatedly reputed
To have pumped more pulsating plasma than the Red Cross.
Dabbling delightfully in dialogue
Like, “Hey, Momma! What’s happening, my Main Man?”
Whose sardonic slothful slumberings
Make Rip Van Winkle sound like an incurable insomniac.
Our nasty neck nuzzler
Was buried by a careening Kansas dust storm.
Sacula set free surfaced
From his coffin left behind in a cavernous crater.
For the single satisfying supplement
To quench a demon’s desire; fluid from the veins of a virgin.
As he searched the vicinal village,
But was one mystical midwestern maiden to martyr too much to ask?
Had vacated the village
For pre-girl-scout camp in a land of parsnip, parsley, and pine.
Harrowingly o’er the hayseed horizon,
He began his retreat though thirst unquenched through frustrated tries.
With a sensuous stony stare.
Early American vintage, but a chance to score is a chance to score.
A vincible virgin no doubt!
How could a dog like that ever attract a young fella?
With piercing precision.
Into the throat he fiercely sank his fiendishly fatal fang.
And Satan’s sun rising
Hazardously on the horizon endangered his manhood.
From freeing his fixed fastened fangs
From this tight timber throated trap to which he’d resorted.
Ravaged in rage he raced
Lugging his lover of lumber to his crude crypt he returned.
When the moon is full, and the wind whirls
Across the peaceful prairie plains, still stuck it’s regretfully reported.
Don’t settle for substitutes.
You could wind up sleeping with a Wooden Indian, night after night!
