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Dark’ning moor
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Dark I stepped out one coal black night
to stroll on Dark’ning Moor.
I felt the cold wind cut and bite
as I left my door.
I wrapped my scarf around my face,
turned to the twisting track.
Ventured forth into the place
whence few, if any, come back.
I'd heard the ancient whispered tales
told round the fire in solemn hush
of mournful barks and haunting wails
as Man-Wolf hunted in the brush.
The fog was thick, and shred by shred,
it cloaked the path where I would walk.
I could not see where I must tread.
T’was then I heard the Man-Wolf talk.
Its eyes gleamed red, its voice rang grave.
It yelped, then roared in evil laughter.
“You shall be my snivelling slave
in my hellish Ever-after.”
It grinned, a grim and ghastly gloat,
and gathered for the gruesome strike.
It jumped, its fangs went for my throat.
I stabbed it with my silver spike.
Man-Wolf cringed in pain and ran,
dripping gouts of guts and gore,
never to be seen again
on lonely Dark'ning Moor.
