Halloweener, Halloweener: shameful costume.
You’re so like a Wicked Witch with wicked wiles.
You look ghostly ’cause you mostly ride across rooms
on a broom, Halloweener with wicked smile.

There is guile inside your coven, Halloweener
and a boiling cauldron, to which you impart
eye of newt, toe of frog—not one more step,
the frog—lies there; toeless, dies there.
Cauldron warms for this “meal,” Halloweener.
You’re just a cold and cronely, ugly Wiccan tart.

You are frying in your oven, Halloweener
something that sure resembles a human part.
Many screams emanate from your four* prep.
Smells like guy fare. You like guy rare?
It’s not warm where babes teethe, Halloweener:
your tit is cold, on loan to metaphoric art.

Halloweener, caldo**schemer


*oven
**soup, broth