LYCANTHROPE.

Oh the dutiful moon,
Pushing the tide.
Such a tasteful moon,
But it moves so fast
Throughout the year,
And it makes me…

My throat becomes quite dry,
And the palpitations start,
There’s sweat about my back,
And I can see my beating heart.
My clothes begin to leave me
And mingle with the floor,
I get a taste for danger
And my tongue cries out for more.
The room begins to blur and turn,
My God this bit takes time,
The image in the mirror changes
But the glass is not inclined;
My legs begin to haunch,
My belly looses paunch,
My fingers slowly split,
My ears no longer fit,
My hair grows quick,
My eyes are fixed,
My bones crack…
And it is black.

You see
Some people say I’m a little bit grey,
Some people say I’m prairie,
But I can tell you baby I’m a weird lay,
So I guess you’d better be wary…