David Lewis Paget
Emily's Twenty-First - Poem by David Lewis Paget
They’d crashed the party at midnight
Surely, a motley looking crew,
All of them dressed in the weirdest best
That the Monster Shop could do,
There was Beelzebub, and Astaroth
And the pale Witch of the North,
Ahead of the Prince of Darkness in
A goats-head mask, of course.
They didn’t look out of place, for all
The guests were dressed to kill,
One attired as a Fairy Queen
While others were dressed to chill,
Out of the mouth of Frankenstein
The blood poured in a stream,
And though it was only cochineal
It brought the odd party scream.
Most had thought it a great idea
(Except for her folks, who’d cursed) ,
They’d all dress up in the neighbourhood
For Emily’s twenty-first,
They’d even formed a committee so
They knew what they had to do,
And each would be wearing a different face
So there’d only be one, not two.
They studied the Ars Goetia
And scanned it for demon names,
The butcher had come as Malphas for
He only had brawn, not brains,
The newsagent was Vapula
And his errand boy was Baal,
While the postmaster was Sallos
And he came there, bearing mail.
They all were full of the grapes of wrath
As it chimed the midnight hour,
While Emily surged out like a goth
From the depths of her wardrobe bower,
The house, at 22 Rankine Street
In the ‘burb of Astral Downs,
Was built where an ancient charnel house
Had piled the bodies in mounds.
Her folks had put in a swimming pool
Where there’d been a village well,
Right on top of a demon school
In the seventh circle of hell,
The water began to heave and churn
As Beelzebub drew near,
And it cooked a few of the swimmers there
As their laughter turned to fear.
‘You thought that you could make fun of us, ’
Said the Prince of Darkness then,
‘For that, we’re making you one of us,
You won’t bother us again! ’
The ‘burb dropped into a bottomless pit
That glowed with the flames of hell,
‘A subterraneaun coal seam fire, ’
Said the Fire Chief, Adam Schnell.
Emily’s parents came back home,
Sat in the car, and cried,
‘I told her that Goth stuff wasn’t good! ’
‘Too late! Our Emily’s fried! ’
They filled it in, there’s a parking lot
Where her parents had sat and cursed,
I’d like to bet, they’ll never forget
Their Emily’s Twenty-First!
29 July 2013
Comments about Emily's Twenty-First by David Lewis Paget
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.