A Little Tasty Morsel

Little bits of flesh litter the floor

Here and there they sit like

Little bits of bacon

A head sits upon a stake firmly planted

In the ground while little rivulets of red

Seep into the cracks of the stone

A raven sits upon a fence, pecking at a

Tasty little treat it holds within a claw

Bluish white little morsel with hazel

That oozes from the core

In the distance a chainsaw revs as

The setting sun slips down behind the Earth

And one can hear the maniacal laughter

Of insanity slipping from its bonds

(c) 2003 A Riddle