-> "The Wretch Someone Said Was Witch Sterile"
Original Song Title:
"The Wreck Of The Edmund FitzGerald"
Parody Song Title:
"The Wretch Someone Said Was Witch Sterile"
The beggin' kids bond when the settin' sun goes down
For the con game some call "Gimme Gimme"
The tykes, it is said, never give in to dread
When the night of All Hallows turns spooky
With them goin' to all doors, sixty-six houses or more
For confections they beg and crave plenty
With rude tricks to use when the homes don't come through
Or their taste for adventure turns surly
With slits for their eyes and in generic disguise
Funny masks shroud young children in costumes
And the teenagers go where the little brats won't
In the mood for some pranks, like Hell's demons
Confusing some clerks, with a bottle they return
And they get fully stoked on tequila
And sailin' like kites, as the wind smells rank
They perceive an abode unappealin'...
With hip roof and spires laid on rafters unsound
And a gate so old it's archaic
From overhead swoop rabid bats in a group
Seeking Snickers and Goodbars for feedin'
The awed teens gaze, gaspin', restless and amazed
Then a wail sets their slender frames dashin'
The laughin' mood drains from their freakin' brains
It's replaced by a flurry of frettin'
When utter fright reigns, a cold look claims respect
Glazed with yellowish hues on its features
A seven inch chin 'neath a hatchet-faced grin
She says, "Fellas, it's sure good t' meet ya!"
The chaps are squired in by a squad of chums and kin
Have a good whiff of ooze that smells feral
The play of black light on a fright-wig ultra white
Frames the wretch someone said was Witch Sterile
A sweaty flood flows when the coven's squad grows
And some wraiths cause the dimwits to cower
They search for a way to escape from the cave
Where they're put, with their poor eyes in blinders
In fright they upchuck, impolitely chastised
The chains on their feet getting tauter
They bawl and complain of their aches and their pains
That their lives may soon end up in slaughter
Laced neurons scold, interiors zing
And their gloom feels a frightful expansion
Those wishing to steam find their tongues can't scream
They're bridled like grays in a horse pen
As far as they know, fate's bomb's set to blow
Fate spins and shakes, jeering with tremors
When the sterile crone shows, she might marinate all toes
And then maybe have members dismembered
...In a dusty cold cell, a teen boy (he) awakes
And he's servin' time, jailed, and he feels ill
Disturbed, maligned, still his rank empty mind's fine
'Twas no hag someone said was Witch Sterile
Allegedly bombed on the liquor that he'd downed
When he did faint, cops hauled him in woozy
Interior pain spreads, Snickers bit chunks get shed
As the taste of adventure comes hurling
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|How Funny: ||5.0|
|Overall Rating: ||5.0|
|Total Votes: ||6|
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