October 9, 2015
There is a certain type of child
Whose ears don’t hear, but shake
He doesn’t see the future or
Connect the dots he makes.
This child is named Precocious
Or Monster, Brat, or Heathen
This particular Scot lad
Was Christopher Stephenson.
Always with his fingers in the sauce
His feet would dance
Unfortunately one field trip from school
Cost him his pants.
He also lost his shirt and jacket
No shoes found on his feet
For Christopher was horsing round
The crags at Arthur’s Seat.
Like his brother years before him
Gravity showed Chris
The laws of physics yet unbroken
He fell down the abyss.
Don’t whimper cry or moan, young man
You kinda had this coming
Never list’ning as your teachers
Begged “Eyes open, danger’s looming!”
No matter your cause of death
We’re happy you are here
Your brother Ian needs a minion
He’s feeding off your fear.
As you will feed from next week’s dead
The energy abides
Until it is transferred to armies
Ruthless and unkind.
Our army grows voluminous
And structured every night
We’ll soon be prepped to take in
All the souls who’ve taken flight.
It’s quite a monumental task
Gathering up the lost
Administratively a mess
We do our best to sort them out
But soon the plagues commence
We’re training new ranks thoroughly
War’s coming, no pretense.
So here’s your snack and here’s your drink
It’s transparent but familiar
OJ and saltine crackers
Brain tricks to ease your nerves.
Your mum will be here shortly
To fight beside her sons
Don’t worry, she’ll feel better
Once she’s arms’ reach of her loves.
Ian’s here to take you on
Tour of facilities
I have no doubt you’ll be impressed
With our capabilities.
You weren’t made of iron
Oh, Christopher the Scot
Soul’s energy in concentrated
While your body rots.
But that’s the way it works here
You’ll soon be comfortable
You’ve joined our Great Round Table.