The Manic Waltz

Rar says the happy Glove

Who frolics through the morning grove

“What have we here,” the townsmen said

“Why it’s a fairy, good and dead’

Let us eat it,” said the men

And since the women had no guns

The men ate the winged one

How much soup was needed then?

To fight all of the sons of men?

Who knows what this poem states

I wrote it in a frenzied daze

I still write now, oh dear me

How I wish I were a flea

Then I could fly and be real small

And look at girls from inside dolls

I would then return to who I was

And kill the girl for what she was

For what I learned while in her head

Was that she was to join the Undead

And I could not allow a girl to kill

The Named Geese of Roots and Dill

How did, when I was a flea,

Read the mind of dear Maree?

I guess, to that, we’ll never know

Cause she’s dead (I told you so)

What I did not then reveal

Is that I killed her orange seal

Now you may be in tears

But I had to due to fears

Would you not fear an orange moose?

An Orange cat? An Orange Goose?

Then why not an Orange Seal?

So, thinking this, I did peal

The poor aquatic creature’s skin

Which I proceeded to hide within

The Vampiric coffin, also from

the pre-zombie girl who was dumb

Enough to think of Zombie things

Like Plates of Brain and Skulls on Rings.

You should be glad I did this deed

For the master parrots in the reeds

Of the country Zanatwa

Where you cannot eat fish raw

Or kill small girls, but I was Okayed

© James T. Tynion IV

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