The Campsite

Twas a starry night in June,

Underneath the full of the moon.

Shadows pass beneath the trees,

The smell of death, upon the breeze.

Echoed voices, deep in the night,

Telling tales, by the campfire light.

Chirping crickets, the hoot of an owl,

Nothing unusual, of these night sounds.

Closer and closer, the footfalls came,

Warily approaching, the campers domain.

The narrator, continued with his tale,

Sounded so real, said so well.

Closer, and closer still,

It began its climb Up the steep hill.

The smell of smoke, the smell of fire,

Fueled its need, to climb higher, and higher.

As it rounded the top, the crowd became silent,

Instinct warned them of impending violence.

They shivered in fear, of its approach,

Knowing this was no joke.

Nearer, and nearer, closer it came,

To it, this was fun, and games.

The thirst for blood, the need to eat,

Up ahead, it smelled fresh meet.

It slept by day, and traveled through the night,

It had a deep fear, of the sunlight.

The shadows had become its home,

Silent and swift, it had become.

Eyes that glowed, with a golden fire,

Its thick black coat, was to be admired.

Claws, long and sharp as knives,

All necessities, to keep it alive.

Only two feet, to walk upon,

Five toes, minus the two, that were gone.

Over seven feet tall, it was said to be,

Some tales, had it swinging through trees.

The campers began to panic now,

They had to leave, had to get away somehow.

Everything was left behind, except their guns,

>From a fast walk, they switched to a run.

The empty campsite was such a treat,

For the puppy, that had nothing to eat.

The narrator had told his tale so well,

So much fear, over a pup, that had come from the

Middle of nowhere.