...he's only sure to growl...


(A pubescent tale)


I fear my son’s a werewolf,

It’s silly I suppose,

But you should see the hair that sprouts

On his hands and face

And nose!


I fret my son’s a werewolf,

Though my friends say ‘No! For sure,’

But they don’t hear the scratching sounds

From behind his bedroom door.


I’m afraid my son’s a werewolf

Leaving destruction in his wake,

For all the good I leave to him

His hands do twist and break!


I’m afraid my son’s a werewolf,

For all he eats is meat;

And only when the clock strikes one

Goes he out to meet and greet.


I’m sure my son’s a werewolf,

For by night he’s on the prowl,

Yet should I speak when still it’s day

He’s only sure to growl.


I know my son’s a werewolf,

Yet what’s mother to do?

Keep the veg upon his plate,

(The clippers charged),

The tone in voice sincere,

And hope my son be human again,

For some weeks of the year.



© S Dyer 2011


About Stuart Dyer

Stuart Dyer, Christian Writer and Musician living in West Sussex, England. Works in the hope of producing the worthy novel or solo; giggles at Oliver Hardy, Peter Sellers and Spike Jones; admires Hudson Taylor, Dickens, Salinger, Bill Bailey and Neil Peart; listens from Wagner to Miles with lots of stops in between; dances to motown and aims to achieve balance in all things.
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