peto

Flying fox

A graveyard"s rusty creaking gate 

Obeys the wind's howl to create 

An atmosphere sliced only by the knife 

The dark his blanket for the cold 

A flying fox's wings unfold 

It's take off brings the dead of night to life

A mist rolls over antique stone 

He tips that he's not here alone 

As something scurrys quickly out of sight 

His isolation closes in

The reek of his most recent sin

Is sensed by every creature of the night 

The demons want to flay the lot 

A witch shines up her cauldron pot 

The werewolfs put thier bid in for the bones 

A vamp already claimed the blood 

The organs bring a tidal flood 

One zombie and her thirty seven clones 

Fear roots him firmly to the ground 

A screeching almost deafening sound 

Has cleared the field with supersonic stealth 

The gods he always heard were near

Decided not to interfere 

The big man's here and wants him for himself 

 

 



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