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| Copyright Lauren Perez, 2011 |
When the streets are cold, and the air is thin
The Pumpkin Men are found within.
These nights are fraught with mischievous guile
They’ll knock on your door. Could they sit for a while?
Be wise to never invite them to stay
They’ll plant and they’ll root without any delay.
They have no such eyes and they haven't two ears
They won’t hear you bargain, they can’t see your tears.
The one thing they have (and do fear the worst):
Is a deep, dark ravine of unquenchable thirst.
You’ll offer them coffee, you’ll offer them cake,
But its YOU they want, friend, and make no mistake!
They’ll slurp you through straws and they’ll nibble your bones.
The skin that’s left after they’ll serve with hot scones.
Your eyes they’ll be saving in old pickle jars.
They'll fight for your scabs, they favor your scars.
Short ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat,
They’ll sit on your fingers, they prefer them quite flat.
"It’s better that way", they’ll say to the other.
"They cook so much better, we won’t need much butter."
Your heart and your spleen they’ll give to the cats
They don’t like the taste, they’re useless as hats.
And when they’re done dining, they’ll sink in the ground.
Your neighbors will search, nothing there to be found.
Until the summer again fades into fall.
Shrouding cold, windless nights over you over all.
Beware of the Pumpkin Men, my precious dears.
They know where you sleep and they’ll feast on your fears.
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