Santa’s Pets


We all know Santa has reindeer,
But let’s not stop just yet,
For let me tell you something,
About Santa’s other pets,

You may not know about them,
But they come every year,
And they help their master,
In spreading Christmas cheer,

Santa has a pet rat,
And on Christmas Day,
He comes to your house to collect,
The stuff you threw away.

Every piece of wrapping paper,
Each unwanted gift,
Even bits of fruitcake,
He takes with movements swift,

He puts every bit of rubbish,
Into a bin bag, big and fat,
And that night distributes it all,
To every little rat,

And here’s another pet,
I would like you to meet,
He is the Christmas Vulture,
And he distributes meat,

If the dog ate your Christmas turkey,
If your dinner needs a bird,
The Christmas Vulture then swoops in,
And without saying a word,

Plops onto your table,
What will be your main course,
Though you must pluck and roast yourself,
Your gift, the avian corpse.

These are Santa’s pets,
And they work during this season,
They aren’t celebrated or well-known,
Though I guess there’s a good reason.


I Brought a Snowman to Life One Day

I brought a snowman to life one day
Not through a spell
Not through a hat
Not by the magic of childlike innocence
But by forgetting he existed

It was snowing out
So then I thought
The snow’ll be gone soon
Better make the most of it

I built a snowman with a big round body
I built a snowman with a big round head
His eyes were two big holes
So was his mouth
His face looked like a bowling ball

Then my best friend called me in
Our show was on

I watched it and didn’t think of the snowman
I made hot chocolate and didn’t think of the snowman
I chatted with my friend and didn’t think of the snowman
I munched on mince pies and didn’t think of the snowman
I thought about things and didn’t think of the snowman

And when I said ‘You’re my best friend’ to my best friend
The snowman came to the window,
‘What am I, chopped liver?’

Ricky Raven Meets a Horror Writer


This is a sequel to my poem Ricky Raven, which was in turn a sequel to Edgar Allan Poe’s similarly titled poem.

Once upon a midnight dreary, I did ponder, weak and weary,
On a story I had written a few minutes before,
For you see, I am a writer, a thriller, an exciter,
I stay up at night to write stories of horror,
Yes, I am a writer of horror,
Tales of terror and nothing more.

I am known far and wide, as one who’s terrified,
Many a reader with books filled with blood and gore,
The tales I like telling, they have people yelling,
And they are best-selling; they want more and more and more.
Yes, my readers, they want more,
Of scary stuff they want more.

Well, once I wrote a story, and it wasn’t gory,
In fact, a humour story came from my keyboard,
It featured Frankenstein, drinking beer and wine,
And having a good time with goofy jokes galore,
‘This,’ said I, ‘was an accident, I’m sure,
An accident and nothing more.’

Yet when I tried to write, it all came out too light,
Jokes and puns that’d make one laugh and roar,
‘But I’m supposed to be scary, not jolly and merry,
I write of monsters that are hairy and bring forth lots of gore,’
Said I to myself, ‘Don’t write fun any more.
Frightful tales and nothing more.’

I tried writing something creepy, though I felt very sleepy,
I knew I had to force myself to write terrifying lore,
While I tried to keep from napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my front door.
‘It’s the raven that says Nevermore!
‘Poe’s Raven that says Nevermore!’

No longer tired, I thought I’d be inspired,
Of that ghastly raven known to bring horror,
What came to my haven, was indeed a raven,
But not what I was craving, for he stood smiling at my door,
‘Hello,’ said he at my front door,
Hello, he said, not Nevermore.

‘I know you’re having trouble, so I came on the double,
I am here to help you, so please don’t shut the door,
You wrote stories cold and chilly, that gave people the willies,
Now you write things that are silly and you throw them on the floor,
Well, take those stories off of the floor,
You should shun the humour world no more.

‘Now here’s something funny: a story of a mummy,
And it is a satire rather than a tale of horror,
And you should really know, it was made by E.A. Poe,
You also made a hoax, in a newspaper, I’m sure,
He wrote funny stories I am sure,
He wrote those things and much much more.

‘Don’t be ashamed, it won’t ruin your name,
If you write humour along with tales of horror,
It’s a good thing to see, that you have variety,
And writing your stories, in just one genre is a bore,
The same old thing is just a bore,
Don’t try one genre, try some more.’

So I took his advice, and I must admit it nice,
For me to tackle something other than horror,
New genres can be tricky, but with the help of Ricky,
It won’t be so sticky, though his singing I abhor,
Ricky, could you sing no more?
Please, please, sing never more!

The Demon in the Supermarket


I know of a demon,
A creature from Hell,
She works at the supermarket,
Stocking the shelves,

She has horns and purple skin,
A forked tail and no hair,
But no-one seems to notice,
No-one seems to care.

She just goes and does her job,
Causes no fear or death,
And when she goes on her break,
She just has a cigarette.

On one of her breaks, I spoke to her,
For I wanted to know more,
How she ended up on Earth,
Working in a store.

She said she once lived in Hell,
And was supposed to torture sinners,
But she spent too much time on her phone,
And cooking microwave dinners,

So for not doing her job,
And wasting many hours,
She was banished from Hell to Earth,
Losing all her powers.

She said she likes being on Earth,
She likes her job and flat,
But she said she wishes,
She could have her powers back.

No longer can she transform,
Breathe fire or possess,
Unless she can make someone evil,
And make them cause distress.

I made friends with this demon,
(Her name’s Patty, by the way),
She’ll get her powers back,
I’ll do evil deeds today,

I’ll terrify the entire world,
Drive them out of their minds,
But I’ll do it all for Patty,
I’ll be cruel to be kind.


The Haunted Farm

You may think me foolish,
You may think me a berk,
But I went to a place,
Where monstrous things lurked,

I took a deep breath,
And tried to stay calm,
As I went and entered,
The Haunted Farm.

Where the tractor roars,
And comes to life,
And comes after you,
With teeth sharp as knives.

And the fields are filled,
With vicious beasts that say, ‘Moo’,
And poultry-geists float up,
And loudly go ‘Boo’,

And the farmer’s a mad scientist,
And you can tell he’s smart,
Because he made his farmhands,
Out of corpse’s parts,

You may think me foolish,
You may think me a nutter,
But I went to the Haunted Farm,
Because I like their butter.

A Zombie on Halloween

Halloween is a night,
When you dress up and seek treats,
It’s also said to be,
When the undead walk the streets,

It’s like in the stories,
It’s like in the movies,
The dead rise from their graves,
And you see tonnes of zombies,

Well, here’s something I’m going,
To share with you,
Those legends are only,
Partly true.

I was walking back home,
From a party,
And I saw a single,
Solitary zombie.

It had large eyes,
And an exposed brain,
And when it saw me,
It howled in pain,

It stumbled towards me,
But I froze in place,
I couldn’t help but,
Stare at its face.

It didn’t want to kill me,
Or eat my flesh or bones,
It was a zombie kitty cat,
Who just wanted a home.

So I adopted the zombie cat,
And I think he’s wonderful,
Just, please don’t ask me,
What I put in his foodbowl.

A Pumpkin Complains Through Haiku

When you carve my face,
Please don’t give me angry eyes,
I’m no pessimist.

When you give me eyes,
I want to have pupils too,
Not just triangles.

I want big sharp fangs,
Not just a few chunky teeth,
Put round here and there.

Yes, they are scary,
But please don’t carve into me,
A politician.

If you don’t carve me,
And just put stickers on me,
I’d rather be pie.