Your name may be common and trite
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.