To My Husband on His 46th

It’s been years and we’re still together
Outlasted doubters and bad weather
But with these handcuffs I’m still tethered
Though many said I should know better

I say to hell with their opinions
And laugh about their lack of vision
And stand firm ‘hind my decision
Marrying a devil’s minion

Our house may smell of rotting flesh
Hints of decay and mold and death
But babe I still think you’re the best
Well beyond my dying breath

Forever in the bowels of hell
A blissful life in which we dwell
The flames of burning bodies swell
I’ve gotten quite used to the smell

Dismembered heads, our home’s decor
We dine with sinners, ghouls and whores
And I could hardly love you more
Here’s to 6 hundred twenty more

Every year I pass the torch to my husband at midnight on Sept. 14. It’s his birthday now. Happy Birthday darling. I love you!


Stupid of the Shrapnel Elevator

I say now wouldn’t it be grand
If we all could form band
Think of what they’ll say in school
They’ll probably think we’re really cool

We’ll go on all kinds of dates
And maybe get to second base
All we need is a cool foursome
And I’ll sing because I’m awesome

No one’s volunteered so far
So you can play the lead guitar
For our rockin’ entourage
If we can jam in your garage

And, what’s that? Can you say ew?
Stephen wants to join up too?
I hear he’s weird and he eats paste
Okay he can play the bass

My little bro rounds out the band
He cries and beats on pots and pans
And besides I’m pretty sure
That he can even count to four

And we’re soon to achieve fame
Once we have a cool band name
Straight from Band Name Generator
‘Stupid of the Shrapnel Elevator’

And now that we’re official rockers
We’ll graffiti the school lockers
Hang in halls without our passes
Refuse to remove our sunglasses

Wear all black and act like rebels
Say that we worship the devil
Bug our moms till they relent
And buy expensive instruments

That will all look really cute
We’ll pose with them in photo shoots
And we’ll be well prepared the day
We actually learn how to play.


The Room

His schedule is synchronized,
With cycles of the moon,
A piano that forever plays,
The Addams family tune.

Pale girls adorn his banisters,
At length they hang around,
Wearing their high stiletto heels,
And vintage velvet gowns.

He tells everyone his best friend’s,
A poet down the way,
The only one who understands,
Every last word he says.

They made up a secret language,
Deep in their conveying,
Although if asked they will admit,
They know not what they’re saying.

And his residence of choice is,
All he ever wanted,
To live in a creepy mansion,
Well known to be haunted.

Kept at a chilly 65,
This curmudgeonly host,
Does his best to keep guests out,
And accommodate the ghosts.

But there is one room in the house,
No one knows the function,
Could it be some sort of dojo?
Or maybe it’s a dungeon!

Some swear that it’s a slaughterhouse,
And he’s a cannibal,
Who sucks out corpse’s blood for youth,
And other animals.

Or maybe a shrine to himself,
To blissfully revel,
Or maybe where he’ll sacrifice,
Young girls to the devil.

But if some evil does lurk there,
He’ll make no exception,
And whether for his privacy,
Or for your protection.

But I think that’s its just a ruse,
Surely we’ll discover,
Him in there hugging teddy bears,
And Skyping with his mother.


Marissa’s Baby

I come home to find him singing,
Heavy metal which assails,
The building with a raucous din,
That sounds like a banshee wail.

Then he plays his video games,
As if in some sort of trance,
Brimstone comes forth from his ears ,
He does a demonic dance.

As a mother I love him so,
But so I have been warned,
As often he sticks out his tongue,
And throws up the devil horns.

I try to make him a nice birthday,
Roller skating with his friends,
He cackles evilly and asks,
When the ritual begins.

Only does he get excited,
When candles light with fire,
His eyes go wide as he exclaims,
Cool, a funeral pyre!

So I decide to ask his dad,
What from it he can discern,
Do the other boys act like this?
Do we need to be concerned?

But my husband just assures me,
That all of this is normal,
After all he’s a preteen boy,
Perhaps it’s just hormonal.

And laughs it off as he goes down,
To that overheated den,
And mutters he must have misplaced,
His darn pitchfork again.

Happy 12th Birthday To My Sweet Boy!


I Sold My Soul To The Devil And Now He Wants A Refund

I had been here before, a long time ago,
Where I knew he would appear again,
He said “I see you are ready to do some bargaining,
What will it be this time my friend?
I can grant you all the best things in life,
Money and clothes so fine,
A voice like a dove, fingers of gold,
If only your soul would be mine.”

And so a life I lead so amazing,
I could scarcely believe,
Knowing all the time what was awaiting me,
For what I had achieved.
When came the day of reckoning,
And down to the pit I would descend,
Waiting to suffer for all eternity,
The price I would pay in the end.

And the heat it was hot, and the people were mean,
And the days were full of torture and pain,
So I thought I’d go directly to Satan himself every day,
To bitterly complain.
I said, “How do you put up with this heat?”
I said “The people here really suck!”
I said “My soul is worth more than this!
This is no kind of deal, now I’m stuck!”

And the devil he tried to avoid me,
But I can be pretty persistent,
He said, “Look lady, a deals a deal.”
But I became very insistent.
Until one day steam came from his ears,
And his horns began to twitch,
And he called among the highest orders,
“Save me from this bitch!”

He said I could keep my money,
He said I could keep my fancy home,
He said I could keep the all the fineries,
If I’d just leave him alone.
And he looked up to the heavens and said,
“You want her? Come retrieve her!”
But I guess it was no small surprise,
They didn’t want me either.

And they even pointed to the fine print,
And said “The deals been done,
No refunds or exchanges after 30 days,
And it’s been 31.”
So there was only one thing left to do,
To stick me in a private suite,
Roomy and air conditioned,
Nothing short of heavenly.

And at my insistence, a sign on the door,
Of the digs where I would eternally dwell,
‘The devil’s finally met his match,
This bitch sure can raise some hell!”



They say he’d been here before, a long time ago,
But now with a new determination,
He was ready to do what he would have to do,
To become a blues guitar sensation.

And so he returned to Rosedale,
But now with fingers of gold,
And everyone swore it was a pact with the devil,
Bought in return for his soul.

But perhaps I am too cynical,
Of myths and fables I’d just as soon disregard,
But I’ll say he simply went off to his room,
And practiced really hard.