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The Fate Of The Black Widow's Mate
The full moon shone bright, one foreboding fall night,
on a village not too far away,
and I’m not telling tales, but the little burg’s ails,
were frightful, to most folks dismay.
This strange little town, of some sordid renown,
was a quaint sleepy place by the light,
but all betting failed, when the waning sun paled,
with a crisp harvest moon shining bright.
By the evening moon’s glare, in complete disrepair,
stood a house that a ghost called it’s home,
and I’ll not tell a lie, but the nights went awry,
when a widow once lived there alone.
The story I heard, although sounding absurd,
was concerning her husbands of late,
that each met his doom, by the light of the moon,
‘twas the fate of the Black Widow’s mate.
The first I recall, was a bridegroom named Paul,
he vanished and never came back,
but to you I’ll confide, that a few say he died,
consumed as a late midnight snack.
The widow named Kate, liked to dine on her mate,
on the eve of the moons waxing light,
with a need to fulfill, in the crisp autumn chill,
her gruesomely strange appetite.
He’s a fine juicy treat, as a loaf of ground meat,
or a sandwich served hot or sliced cold,
quite savory when diced, in a sauce over rice,
tastes something like chicken I’m told.
This gentleman Nate, wooed the widow named Kate,
through the winter and spring of the year,
their love seemed complete, in the late summer’s heat,
his intention to wed was quite clear.
Their wedding was small, on a day that same fall,
one beautifully clear afternoon,
and they danced with delight, waltzing into the night,
‘neath the glow of a crisp harvest moon.
There was nothing amiss, it was honeymoon bliss,
‘till Kate felt the twinge of a pang,
and she needed to dine, by the harvest moon’s shine...
Old Nate would taste good with meringue.
He’s a succulent meal, with that spicy appeal,
when sauteed with chopped garlic and dill,
or seared in a pan, with a pinch of cayenne,
then charred on a barbeque grill.
This fellow named Fred, clearly rich and well bred,
was charmed by the widow named Kate,
and I think you all know, where the tale has to go,
as this was the poor hubby’s fate.
He was smoked with mesquite, a southwestern treat,
then basted with honey and cloves,
slow roasted all day, in the cook’s favorite way,
quite tender when pulled from the stove.
Now she wed nevermore, that demure carnivore,
but the craving would oft’ reappear,
and on each harvest night, by the moon’s autumn light,
the men-folk would still disappear.
This tale’s pretty old, but the gossip’s still told,
that the Black Widow died in her bed,
and as neighbors passed by, speaking soft, in a sigh,
they recalled how old Kate looked well fed.
The ghost of old Kate, always looks for a mate,
on the eve of the moon’s waxing light,
and she still needs to fill, when the autumn nights chill,
her gruesomely strange appetite.
