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.

Published in: on April 23, 2008 at 9:51 pm  Leave a Comment  

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