Apple doesn't like listing me as "Will Shakespeare (poetry blogger)"
to differentiate me from the other guy, although everybody else does.
They took my first book but now won't take new ones. (Go figure.)
Since Smashwords distributes my books to Apple anyway,
just go to my Smashwords author page and download EPUBs from there.
Smashwords provides samples of my books also.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Punkinhead: A Redneck Horror Story

In the punkin patch out back of town
Some durn fool kids was messin’ round.
The quarterback and the new prom queen
Just couldn’t wait to shed their jeans,
So off they came and down they went;
He plowed her field till she was spent!
She happily let him have his way—
He wasn’t the first she’d done that day
‘Cause she was a sex enthusiast;
But she didn’t know he’d be her last.

There, nekkid in their furrowed bed,
Her cowboy rode till he was dead—
She heard him yell; next thing she knew
His head jerked round and off it flew!
She screamed as blood sprayed from her lover.
Then a toothy punkin grinned above her
And settled on the dead boy’s neck.
“Let’s ride this train until we wreck!”
He gave that girl an awful pumpin’;
They say her screams were really somethin’.

The farmer heard her. He grabbed his gun,
Hightailed it out there in a run,
And then he saw that ghastly hunk
Humpin’ and swayin’ like some old drunk!
He staggered back—then found some spunk,
Lifted his gun, and shot that skunk!
But the ghoul just smiled as he eyed his prey,
Called a ghostly steed and rode away.
But he yelled, “You’ll die before sun’s light
‘Cause she’ll bear my child this very night!”

Then the farmer’s legs both turned to jelly
As he glimpsed the poor girl’s swollen belly.
“Please hep me, sir! “ she hoarsely begged.
“This thang inside me’s the living dead!
My kid’s a monster, it cain’t be born—
Ya gotta kill it before the morn!”
He closed his eyes and fought back tears,
But she was right and his task was clear.
He shot the girl and called the cops,
Who found her body among his crops.

At first the locals kept it quiet,
But soon their greed was running riot.
The undertaker’s gallows humor
Capitalized on the growin’ rumors,
So her tombstone bears this cryptic score:
“The horseman rode this pale young whore.”
For merchants here, it’s quite fulfillin’;
The souvenirs make them a killin’.
And the tragic pair? They’re not quite dead—
They’re a merchant’s dream as “Punkinhead.”

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