Aaron Stone
...Enfyre Anwatter
Inspired by Bill Watterson.
Dinner In Bed
Lying underneath my covers,
Thinking about how most mothers,
Wouldn't leave their kid alone to die
I hear again a subtle scrape
That does send shivers down the nape
Of my neck and stands the hairs up high
Right now I think my end is near,
The thumps and bumps are what I fear:
They always sound from right beneath my back
They creep and slither, hiss and snarl,
Call out to me and say "Hey Carl
Why don't you come down for a midnight snack"
I'm hungry, yes, I won't deny it,
Though I think I'll just keep quiet,
Unsure as to what'll be eating what
I imagine that the snacking
Would come after the attacking:
Then they will by chomping on my gut
So I curl up even tighter,
Wishing that the room were brighter
As they argue 'bout how I should taste
Will they season or sautee,
Or marinate throughout and day,
"No," said one, "the only way's to baste"
I guess it doesn't matter much
What they choose as the final touch,
Because what matters is that I'll be toast
Whether buttered, warm, or crunchy,
Breakfast, dinnery, or lunchy,
The fact that I'll be dead will matter most
That I should leave this world before
Experiencing so much more
Than I have is my biggest regret
God's decided "It's Game Over,
No more luck or four-leaf clover,
Now's the end and this is all you get"
"Let's just get on with it," one screams,
"Before he falls asleep and dreams,
I'd really rather eat before the day"
I can advocate quite clearly:
Fellas, really, I prize dearly
This life which you wish to stew away
I beg you cease this child-fest,
Let me put forth this last request,
Before you try and eat me, monsters all
There is yet an evil sinner:
Please consider, for your dinner
My scrumptious little brother down the hall
Dinner In Bed
Lying underneath my covers,
Thinking about how most mothers,
Wouldn't leave their kid alone to die
I hear again a subtle scrape
That does send shivers down the nape
Of my neck and stands the hairs up high
Right now I think my end is near,
The thumps and bumps are what I fear:
They always sound from right beneath my back
They creep and slither, hiss and snarl,
Call out to me and say "Hey Carl
Why don't you come down for a midnight snack"
I'm hungry, yes, I won't deny it,
Though I think I'll just keep quiet,
Unsure as to what'll be eating what
I imagine that the snacking
Would come after the attacking:
Then they will by chomping on my gut
So I curl up even tighter,
Wishing that the room were brighter
As they argue 'bout how I should taste
Will they season or sautee,
Or marinate throughout and day,
"No," said one, "the only way's to baste"
I guess it doesn't matter much
What they choose as the final touch,
Because what matters is that I'll be toast
Whether buttered, warm, or crunchy,
Breakfast, dinnery, or lunchy,
The fact that I'll be dead will matter most
That I should leave this world before
Experiencing so much more
Than I have is my biggest regret
God's decided "It's Game Over,
No more luck or four-leaf clover,
Now's the end and this is all you get"
"Let's just get on with it," one screams,
"Before he falls asleep and dreams,
I'd really rather eat before the day"
I can advocate quite clearly:
Fellas, really, I prize dearly
This life which you wish to stew away
I beg you cease this child-fest,
Let me put forth this last request,
Before you try and eat me, monsters all
There is yet an evil sinner:
Please consider, for your dinner
My scrumptious little brother down the hall
