Devils Buttermilk Poem by Douglas McClarty

I was always fearful, they where like ghosts to me
Unknown souls finding their way, but still alive.
Now looking back every town had one, two or three
Though not as many as I see now, they were old then

Even as a child I remember, most were known by name
These poor unfortunates brought those at home, shame
They consumed their waiting, wanting families daily bread.
Yet now the establishments they haunted are almost dead.

More of them stalk the streets, some are violent,
I am older now but more fearful, not for me, for them.
They consume in packs, pouring bile on to the streets
Creating no go places during their nocturnal activities

They may expire younger than those who went before
The poison elixir draws them, as if like a liquid magnet.
The food of death sold to them, cheap on market shelves
An endemic epidemic, spread by greedy corporate hands.