Literally Disturbed #1 Page 2
When he died, he was wrapped up in paper
and stuck in a gold-painted box.
They mumbled some prayers, and they left him
sealed in by a big pile of rocks.
As centuries passed he lay rotting
in his desolate cavern of stones,
in the dullness and dampness and darkness,
with the snakes snaking over his bones.
And his gold got all tarnished and rusty
or was stolen by thieves in a raid.
Then his body was found by explorers
to be dug up and tagged and displayed.
So when, one strange day, he awakens,
I can tell you what he’s gonna do:
He’ll storm around taking his vengeance—
I mean, come on, wouldn’t you?
WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE DOG?
“Henrietta, my goodness, what got into you?”
Look how she’s howling and trembling, too!
There’s no squirrel in the room, there’s no cat and no mouse;
there’s no danger, no stranger has entered the house.
But she’s acting frantic, like never before;
she’s pacing and sniffing and pawing the floor.
“What is it, girl? What’s got you so thoroughly tweaked?
Why are you acting so totally freaked?
We tell you to sit and to stay, and you won’t.
Oh, what do you see that the rest of us don’t?”
POOR THING
We found the poor thing
by the side of the road,
a coughing and pale little sicky.
It was moaning and sighing
as if it were trying
to tell us it felt kind of yicky.
We took it home, the poor thing,
and made it a nest
and gave it a gentle inspection,
while it ate cheese and jam
and most of a ham
and the frog I brought home for dissection.
Look, it’s trying to speak!
See it croak through its beak?
I think its big eye is, like, blinking.
It’s not pale anymore—
it’s more robust than before.
See, it’s grunting!
It’s moving!
It’s thinking!
It’s getting well, the poor thing,
so hip, hip, hooray!
Our patient is bigger and stronger each day!
But, um, when it’s better, will it go away?
OLD TREE
I look at the tree.
The tree looks at me.
The night is cold.
The tree is old.
Branches and bark.
Moonlight, dark.
Nothing to fear.
Nothing to fear.
Tree’s out there.
I’m in here.
HOW I CHECK FOR MONSTERS BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP
First I check under the bed,
which is obviously crazy.
A monster that hides beneath the bed
isn’t scary—he’s just lazy.
Next I check the closet,
behind all the pants and shirts.
Make sure I see no beasties
wearing my old skirts.
I turn on the lights in the bathroom,
and once all the shadows are gone
I check that there’s no growling fiends
in the tub or on the john.
I glance in the hallway mirror
for a fanged and horrible face.
I look away, then back again—
you know, just in case.
The fridge, the stove, the pantry:
the kitchen is all clear.
I stop and have a cookie.
Why not? Since I’m here.
And then at last I’m confident
that the beasts have stayed away.
Now I lay me down and go to sleep.
Oops—too late—it’s day.
OUIJA BOARD
For starters,
we each ask an easy one,
or a silly one,
just for fun.
“Will I pass
science class?”
“Does Principal Flayer
have his real hair?”
You wiggle.
You giggle.
“Will the math exam be hard?”
“Is there gold in our backyard?”
“What’s for dinner? Come on, tell!”
“Why does Joshie always smell?”
Josh says, “Hey!”
It’s fun. It’s play.
Then the lights go out.
You jump. You shout.
In the darkness, someone—who?—
whispers, “Spirit, tell us true!
Go on, tell us, don’t you lie,
who of us will be first to die?”
You freeze in place—you’re scared to death.
It starts to move—you hold your breath—
ZOMBIES
The zombies are coming!
The zombies are coming!
Run, for the love of God, run!
’Cause they’ll eat your brains—
and let me be plain:
That would not be much fun.
The zombies are closer!
They’re closer and closer!
Keep moving, people, come on!
’Cause they’ll eat your brains
till no brain remains—
they’ll eat ’em until they’re all gone!
Here they come shambling!
Muttering and moaning!
Here they come rambling!
Grunting and groaning!
If you chain ’em they’ll just break the chains!
They just keep on coming,
the relentless undead,
and yes—as I said—
they eat BRAINS!
So run, Sally Ann!
Run, Yoko, run, Stan!
Run, Jason, run, Missy, run, Sue!
Run, Rishi and Thomas, and you there—yes, you!
They’ll gobble up your brains
and his brains and her brains.
They’ll eat Margo’s and Markie’s and mine!
Oh no, one caught me!
It bit me! It got me!
But don’t worry, I think that I’m—
BRAIIIIIIIIINS!
WHAT HAPPENED TO LITTLE JAN BANKS?
They say she did it on a dare.
(That’s what they say, that’s what they say.)
She bragged that she’d go ANYWHERE.
(That’s what the children say.)
A nasty kid named Sean McGill
pointed up to Dead Man’s Hill.
“Let’s see you go up THERE.”
She shrugged and said, “Whatever. Sure.”
(That’s what they say, that’s what they say.)
“It’s three ten now; I’ll be back at four.”
(That’s what the children say.)
In bright pink sneakers, off she went
up that trail all steep and bent
along the forest floor.
They waited for an hour, then two,
(That’s what they say, that’s what they say.)
once little Jan was gone from view.
(That’s what the children say.)
But Jan, she never did come down,
and soon the whispers raced through town:
The hill had had its way.
What happened next the world knows not!
(Up to this day, this very day!)
Did she get lost, explode, or rot?
(No man alive can say.)
And probably it’s all just talk,
poor Jan and her ill-fated walk.
Or maybe it’s not.
HEADLESS HORSEMAN
There’s a headless horseman on the loose,
riding his mount through the night.
Gathering speed on a terrible steed,
waking the people with fright.
There’s a headless horseman on the loose,
but that’s not the worst part, doggone it.
’Cause somewhere around,
waiting still to be found,
is the head that has no body on it.
SHADOWS
Shadows make shapes on the wall.
Shadows grow dark on the door.
The shadows spread slowly, they shift and expand,
like wings, they unfold on the floor.
I’m trying to sleep, but how can I?
I crane my neck to see them until it’s sore.
The ocean of inky-black shadows
is spreading out on the rug on my floor.
I try to count sheep, but it’s useless.
I give up at a hundred and four.
My bed is just one tiny island
in the shadowy sea of the floor.
I stare out the window and tremble.
Oh, how many minutes more?
Before morning arrives with the sunlight
to chase the shadows away from the floor?
THE WITCHES OF EAST MCCLINTOCK STREET
Hungaly-mungaly-bungaly-boo.
We’re chanting and marching like witches do,
but nothing is happening yet.
We whipped up one heck of a magical potion
from Worcestershire sauce and exfoliating lotion,
which was sadly the best we could get.
’Cause we asked Mama if she had eyes of a frog
and three long hairs from a rabid old dog,
and she said, “I’m afraid I do not.”
Nor could we find any tongue of newt.
But we’ve got string cheese and squeezy fruit,
and we tossed all of that in the pot.
But witches have spells that they carefully learn.
Witches are named Thistle or Fire-Shall-Burn;
we’re just Lucy and Marley and Ned.
And really, this bathrobe is makin’ me itchy.
I’m tired of marching, and I don’t feel too witchy.
How ’bout we go and ride bikes instead?
THE BITE
I just woke in the dark
with a strange little mark
on the side of my neck,
and it itches like heck—
I’ve been bitten!
Oh, now, here’s a surprise
’cause it’s two marks, like eyes,
and they’re swollen and red,
and I’m frozen like lead
where I’m sittin’.
I bet it’s still by my bed,
looking down at my head,
its evil eyes staring through me!
This thing that came glidin’,
to my room and lay hidin’
until it attacked me
and ate!
I fear this bite was a curse,
which I’ll have to reverse,
and I better act fast!
’Cause the night’s speeding past!
And I’ll soon start to change
to something awful and strange!
I’ll be quick! I’ll be steady!
Unless it’s already
too late.
HIKING
“Come on,” my father says. “What’s wrong?
You’re young, you’re fit, your legs are strong,
and we have miles and miles to go!
Get those knees up, why so slow?”
I grimace, and I grasp his hand
and say, “Dad, you don’t understand!
I’m not weak; I’m scared, you see,
of what the woods might do to me.”
“Oh, dear boy, for heaven’s sake—”
says he, but then I see a snake!
And SCREAM! But phew, there’s no snake there—
but then I SCREAM! ’Cause, look! A bear!
There’s no bear, either. Dad is steamed.
He thinks it’s foolish that I screamed.
“You’re nuts,” he says. “I’m not!” I say.
“And how can you be so blasé?
What if I stumble on a stone?
What if you fall and break a bone?
What if we meet a vampire bat?
What if there’re spiders in my hat?”
Dad smiles and says, “Son, just hang on,”
and points . . . And look, the clouds are gone,
and the sun is full and big and bright,
and it casts a warm and golden light,
and there’s not a bear or bat in sight.
And the woods don’t feel so bad, you know?
“Well, Dad . . . ,” I start—Hey, where’d he go?
THE VAMPIRE SLEEPS
In a box, warm and tight,
all day long, like a rat.
Flies out at night
on the wings of a bat.
He alights in your dream
with the fangs and the cape.
You wake and you scream;
it’s too late. No escape.
Belly filled, flies away.
Back to his box lined with mud.
Dreams through the day.
And tonight: more new blood.
YOU’RE A SKELETON
You know what you are?
You’re a skeleton.
You’re a skeleton covered in skin.
I got news for you, friend:
You’re a skeleton.
That is just the condition you’re in.
You can walk, I know.
You can talk. So?
You can ride a bike, and read a book,
and walk a dog, and tie your shoe.
Beneath it all you’re a skeleton.
You are, and I am, too.
Oh yes, yes you are,
you’re a skeleton.
You’re just bones, at the end of the day.
That’s just what we are;
we’re all skeletons.
Not saying that’s bad, by the way.
If a kid pokes you at school
or says that you’re not cool,
makes you sad,
makes you feel small,
just recall:
No matter how smart he is, or tall,
he’s nothing but a skeleton,
a bunch of bones, and that is all.