Wednesday, September 30, 2009
But you come to haunt me every night,
Buzzing in my ear
Without a trace of fear
And gently shove your needle-nose
Into my fingers and my toes
And suck on till I am bloodless.
You little miniature Countess,
Why, when your husband's deeds
Are so noble that he feeds
Only on the fruits of trees,
Do you puncture my arteries?
Generations of repellent,
Which were clearly meant
To wipe out your existence,
Have failed against your resistance.
And so, about you, I must say this thing:
You are responsible for inspiring
That real evil fella
Called Count Dracula.
Said Sunshine to darkness one night,
“Let’s get the bloody fundamentals right.
In some time you will disappear
And all you will become is a mere
Thought, a memory, a part of the past.
And when I generously cast
Myself on the world and its people
They’ll be happy. It’s that simple.”
Darkness was unperturbed. He looked fine.
After a while, he said, “Look Sunshine,
I am sure you have met my first cousin,
The one who's presently in Wisconsin.
His name? Mr. Dark Cloud, remember him?
He might, just might, on a whim
Stand between you and the world all day.
And I’ll still exist, despite going away.”