(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
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