Tales of Morbid Mike

Mike was strange, and a bit deranged

He was a boy who took some flack.

Loathed all colour, he'd sell his mother

For anything a shade of black.

Morbid Mike was a cruel little tyke

He pulled the wings off bugs that fly.

His love of black, ate wasps for snacks

Only Mike knew the reasons why.

He spent his days, in sick old ways

Getting thrills finding anything dead.

What he liked the best, you'll never guess

Was his toys with their missing heads.

I remember the time, he rushed round mine

When i told him, my cat had perished. 

He always told me, over cups of tea  

It's a memory he always cherished.

Soon came the day,They took Mike away

He said the cemetery looked so bland

He was caught all alone, by an old grave stone

With a black paint brush in his hand.