By Randall Stone
Oh wicked man, with darkest heart,
Thy time has come, from life depart,
Thy sins are many, thy soul is black,
But from the dead, thy will be back.
You travelled well, you travelled wide,
But wicked life, you could not hide,
From country to country, with wicked renown,
You searched for evil, in every town.
You shirked the light, and loved the night,
Embraced the darkness, with all thy might,
Forsaking God, thy Saviour too,
To Satan thou, was always true.
Money and greed, power and lust,
Avail the naught, thy curse is just,
Immortality beckons thee,
Between life and death, forever be.
No blessed ground, no sacraments,
The angels weep and Christ laments,
Buried without holy rite,
To rise in darkness, denied the light.
And so from grave, new life begins,
A reaped reward, for all thy sins,
Though you in life, rich food enjoyed,
Now only blood, can fill thy void.
So evil is, thy risen form,
From cursed earth, thou art reborn,
To hunt thy food, life giving blood,
Destroying all, that’s pure and good.
In night’s shadow, you must go,
The light of day, thy deadliest foe,
And into bedrooms, dost though creep,
Upon sleeping prey, thy vileness leaps.
Thy putrid stench, though foulest reek,
As you prey upon the meek,
None can move or even shriek,
As they feel their life force leak.
With foulest breath, you take thy bite,
And drain them with thy evil might,
Thy bloated corpse, it leaves them dead,
And fills their relatives with dread.
Left unchecked, thy vileness spreads,
The way to stop it, take their heads,
Relatives, their hearts do break,
As loved one’s heads, they’re forced to take.
Night by night, thy victims stalk,
And fill the town, with fearful talk,
But some have fighting spirit true,
And soon they come to look for you.
Immobilized by day, thy powers scant,
Too late, too late, you cannot recant,
And you lay there, by light of day,
Thy body without, moral decay.
They come for you, with stakes and knives,
To pay you back for stolen lives,
Thy ghastly form, they look upon,
But fear now, have they none.
The hammer falls and hit’s the stake,
A hideous, groaning noise, thy make,
And stolen blood, erupts and spouts,
Of thy wickedness now, gone are their doubts.
Through muscle, tendons, blackest heart,
The sharpened stake, your flesh it parts,
Through your body, true and fair,
It pins you to your evil lair.
Now comes the spade, its razor edge,
To end thy deadly reign they pledge,
But as it meets with spinal bone,
Its course is stopped, they lay it prone.
With knives instead, they set to work,
This terrible task, they will not shirk,
With nerves of steal, their skills well bread,
They soon lift up thy severed head.
With gore thy tattered neck it drips,
A last gasp, from thy foulest lips,
They build thy funeral pyre high,
And there thy cursed body lie.
Through heat and smoke is where it ends,
Thy reign of terror, through air it wends,
And thy foul ashes gather they,
For blessed wind, to bear away.
© Copyright 2016 Randall Stone. All rights reserved.
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