There was a boy
young and curious
he had no toys
his father was very serious
and on Halloween night
his giddiness exponential
He'd set to make it right
dressed in a costume rental
he'd prepare to go out
his dad would shout,
"You're not leaving this house tonight,
by God, this blasphemy simply isn't right
My son shall not be seen,
No sir, not on Halloween!"
He'd stay in
swearin'
loathing the busy street
with sweaty palms and shuffling feet
he'd sit on his cold window-ledge
staring out over a crippled willow-hedge
his eyes would water with wanton delight
and scrutinize the once scary
now weary night
ghosts and knights and ghouls
he watched them caravan by in large car pools
Encompassed in his Christian home
some spirit still some-what shown
on the door: a cross of bone
With his porch light off
and froth from his father's
open jaw he saw
little children sweetly passing
but his father, pacing,
barking raw and shrieking fast,
the old man cried, "Stay off my grass!"
Yes, the kids all hated his old man
and would fight back as best they can
A swear and glare
beneath their sweaty mask
anything above a mumble
was a grueling task
In turn they hated him
O it seems he could not win
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