Fear No More For The Wind Is A Bag Of Fried Chicken

I come to your house in the rain
Sporting my weary love,
Unmatched socks, a fake ID
And a sore butt that you’ve kicked
Around for entirely too long...
The night is an effervescent hooker
Rolling drunks on Grant Street,
The wind is a school boy
Throwing bags of flaming feces
On front porches for Holloween,
The hiss of the cicada is a werewolf
Howl, on the prowl who wears his cowl
(do werewolves wear cowls? Google does
not seem to be helpful in this regard and I
have misplaced my old copy of Lycanthropy
Through the Ages. I think I gave it to Lisa
On a vacation in 1999)
About his furry and tooth-lined face.
Under the giant maple I hide from the rain
Praying that the lightning won’t hit the sucker
And fry me like a piece of pork roll on a picnic grill,
Come to the door Judy, or I’ll croak….