B-Horror
B Horror
By: Witney Seibold
(apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)
Lo, ‘tis a gala night
Within my lonesome teenage years.
A group of us, prepared for fright
In jeans, with stolen beers,
Sit in a theatre to see
A film of blood and fears.
The ushers shift uncomfortably
And try to hush our jeers.
The film we paid eight bucks to see
Is a gory and sexy one
And features some beheadings
Of topless chicks who scream and run
From chainsaw wielding maniacs
That kill and stalk most anyone
Engaged in hot unmarried sex
And having too much fun.
That bloody horror, full of gore
And killers who hate pot,
Make all us rowdies cheer for more
To see a nubile hottie shot
Or stabbed and slashed up with an axe
Or fed to their dog Spot.
We nitpick all the logical facts,
Although we don’t care about the plot.
We see among the seas of cheese
A Freddy with a glove,
Numerous franchise’s part threes,
A doll named Chucky making love,
An alien nicknamed “the bitch,”
A pack of monster fleas,
“Halloween III: Season of the Witch”
Which misses Michael’s heavy wheeze.
Out, on Friday, out we go.
We take to the streets, we juvies.
We go to the theater, another horrorshow
“The Howling,” “C.H.U.D.” or “The Ghoulies.”
Linda Blair is spewing goo
“The Hunger” to see Deneuve’s boobies.
The “Evil Dead” parts one and two
And all the great “B” movies.
