There, in a town, that just might be yours
were gruesome displays of violent gore.
Of scenes very bloody and horrors untold
where bodies-turned-dishes were eaten and sold.
Dozens went missing, the young and the old,
and none of them knew how their end would unfold:
The town’s chef would claim a victim or two
and put them in dishes that gained rave reviews.
I don’t really like when posts start with “It’s that time of year again!” because it’s always “that time of year” for something, isn’t it? Winter is for peppermint and pine scented house sprays; spring is for baskets of greens and raging allergies; summer is the time for coconuts and tans; and fall is when the pumpkins infiltrate everything.
But sure, I guess it’s that time of year again: Pumpkin time.
Not to sound like a negative turd, but I’m glad that pumpkins are only really revered one month out of the year. We puree their flesh and fold it into pies, roast the seeds that send sharp shards tumbling down our throats, and then whittle their hollow bodies them into jagged-toothed monsters or squint-eyed Bill Cosby effigies. Which means that not only are pumpkins everywhere, but they now also have eyes and are watching you always.