Emily's Twenty-FirstA Poem by David Lewis PagetThey’d
crashed the party at midnight Surely,
a motley looking crew, All
of them dressed in the weirdest best That
the Monster Shop could do, There
was Beelzebub, and Astaroth And
the pale Witch of the North, Ahead
of the Prince of Darkness in A
goats-head mask, of course. They
didn’t look out of place, for all The
guests were dressed to kill, One
attired as a Fairy Queen While
others were dressed to chill, Out
of the mouth of Frankenstein The
blood poured in a stream, And
though it was only cochineal It
brought the odd party scream. Most
had thought it a great idea (Except
for her folks, who’d cursed), They’d
all dress up in the neighbourhood For
Emily’s twenty-first, They’d
even formed a committee so They
knew what they had to do, And
each would be wearing a different face So
there’d only be one, not two. They
studied the Ars Goetia And
scanned it for demon names, The
butcher had come as Malphas for He
only had brawn, not brains, The
newsagent was Vapula And
his errand boy was Baal, While
the postmaster was Sallos And
he came there, bearing mail. They
all were full of the grapes of wrath As
it chimed the midnight hour, While
Emily surged out like a goth From
the depths of her wardrobe bower, The
house, at 22 Rankine Street In
the ‘burb of Astral Downs, Was
built where an ancient charnel house Had
piled the bodies in mounds. Her
folks had put in a swimming pool Where
there’d been a village well, Right
on top of a demon school In
the seventh circle of hell, The
water began to heave and churn As
Beelzebub drew near, And
it cooked a few of the swimmers there As
their laughter turned to fear. ‘You
thought that you could make fun of us,’ Said
the Prince of Darkness then, ‘For
that, we’re making you one of us, You
won’t bother us again!’ The
‘burb dropped into a bottomless pit That
glowed with the flames of hell, ‘A
subterraneaun coal seam fire,’ Said
the Fire Chief, Adam Schnell. Emily’s
parents came back home, Sat
in the car, and cried, ‘I
told her that Goth stuff wasn’t good!’ ‘Too
late! Our Emily’s fried!’ They
filled it in, there’s a parking lot Where
her parents had sat and cursed, I’d
like to bet, they’ll never forget Their
Emily’s Twenty-First! David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetReviews
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