Eventide’s contrast to the world of day inevitable,

A setting as stereotypical as Winter’s baneful winds.

Woodlands masking the truest menace of death perpetual.

Serenity of the unmasked wild, forestry hiding the eventual.

 

The current flock, born for the sole purpose of our slaughter.

An abundance of fair; boyfriend, girlfriend, son and daughter.

Enquiries trouble, a conundrums of sinister delight.

Who shall it be? How will they depart tonight?

 

Behind door number one, the typical frolicking pair.

Out for a lake born tryst, in the lake not even a care.

Shall we stealthily accost them as they rise from the depths.

Harpoons to share, between youths beating breasts.

 

Behold, behind door number two, just one cabin down.

Within its sweet depths, the lonely lady and the camp clown.

A method of disposal begs further scrutiny and greater examination.

Perhaps ensnare and gradually introduce lurid exsanguination.

 

But these are all frivolities to yourself and, the exhilarated me.

For what truly electrifies, is behind the colourful door number three.

The prim; the proper, self-assured, strong, independent and astute.

If this were a script? That would be the potential survivor! How cute!

 

Veil of night is calling that individuals name, as Hollywood is so far away.

For reality has arrived in the shape of human suit wearing wolves today.

I recommend securing a handshake, draw in their confidence, make it swell.

And when they are not looking, decapitate with shovel, disembowel with trowel.