I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs;
I see your bedroom door open a crack.
No one can stop me now, for no one dares:
You've got my toe, and now I want it back.
The grave rot rolls off my corpse like a fog
over my tattered clothes, all brown and black;
It wasn't easy climbing out the bog,
But you've got my toe, and now I want it back!
You thought it just a keepsake or a bone
You could display as a macabre knick-nack;
You didn't know I'd come out of my grave
To find you shivering, frightened, all alone
Under your sheets. Now you cannot be saved.
You've got my toe, young man--I WANT IT BACK!
2 comments:
Yet another poem adapted from Alvin Schwartz's Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, this one the old campfire jump-story, "The Hairy Toe." You know, where the man/woman/kid finds the toe on his/her way home, pockets it for a keepsake, and then that night while in bed he/she hears "Whooo's got my hairy toe?" coming closer and closer, over the fields, through the front door, up the stairs, right outside the bedroom door, etc....then screaming and scaring the crap out of the teller's friends?
You don't know that one? Well, it's a traditional folk tale, trust me. Also retold in Who Took My Hairy Toe by Shutta Crumb.
oh, my god, that is hilarious. only you would make a hairy toe into a sonnet, ss.
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