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