A Collection of Halloween Poems
by Marcus Vincent
Gluttony's Revenge on a Ghoul
Midnight, he 'rose from the morass.
Those pumpkins had left him quite gassed.
With a spin of great flair
He shot up in the air
Propelled by a noxious blast.
-Marcus
Vincent 19 Octobre 2002
Homage to J.R.R.
There once a story penned Tolkein
Of goblins, and balrogs, and orc kin
Of Galadriel's fair light,
And Frodo's brave flight
From the EYE, straining hard to behold him.
-Marcus Vincent, 9/27/02
On Sauron's Brood (alt. title: "Doh!")
In quagmires deep down in the dark
He bred those foul things with no heart
Blending malice and pain
But forgetting their brain
Its no wonder an Orc's got no spark!
-Marcus Vincent, 9/27/02
Choir Rejection Notice
Nine high pitched wailing wraiths
Whisper breathy threats in your face.
"Oh pleasssse, let ussss join!"
"No! Now you just get goin!
"You're sopranos and we need a bass!"
-Marcus Vincent, 9/27/02
Circe
She was draped in diaphanous violet
A potion she urged me, "Come, try it!"
When after one swig
I turned into a pig,
I thought, hmm, perhaps I should diet.
-Marcus Vincent, 9/16/02
Little Miss Muffet
Sat down on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey,
Along came a spider
and sat down beside her,
and she beat the crap out of it with her spoon.
Giselle was quite a cloistered girl
She hadn't seen very much of this world,
Her father was a practicing Mason
and put such a horrible grimace on
when he discovered her blind date's name was "Jason."
Something in the way she moves
attracts me like no other lover,
Something in the way she woos me,
I don't want to leave her now,
You know I believe and AAAAAAAAGGHH !!!
--(Final song of a Male Black Widow Troubadour)
Hi lally lally oh lally oh loo,
A Troubadour sings songs of love for you,
Hi lally lally oh lally oh loo,
I wish I could think of some lyrics, don't you?
Hey Nanni hey Nanni oh,
I just can't quite figure, but thought you should know,
I taunted a witch not many winks ago,
And now all my rhymes end in OOH, and OOOOO!!
-- by a frustrated troubadour of the 13th century whose ill fate it was
to be born with a silver tongue, a keen intellect and no sense of social
propriety.
Of all the witches and goblins and ghosts,
The demon that I dread the most,
Is the ghoul that arrives,
only barely alive,
And sits on my couch to compost.
She is never a lively court jester,
Just sits there a bubbling fester,
And though I wince and complain,
That cursed vagrant remains,
And the cops simply will not arrest her!
[Marcus joined Steve and I in our Halloween limerick fest in October 2000. He originally missed the notion that the poems were limericks, but added some fun stuff too good to ignore. And as you can see, he caught on in the end!]