By William A. Lefrancois | Observer Contributor
In a dark, dreary, deserted, desolate field
a pale, petrified pumpkin patch lies full of yield.
Many are round, robust, rigorous, righteous globes of orange;
One alone sullen, sad, sorrowful, sorry unfit for the grange.
On a nearby hill, high, hideous, hints of mortality
a graveyard yawns, yearns, yellowing, yesterday’s totality.
Underground buried, bruised, banished bones await;
Halloween night arrives, awesome, angry angst of fate.
Bones in multitudinous, murky, mire mix of shape;
Prominent sorrowful, sullen, subdued skull wanting escape.
It’s lusting, lonely, liberty longing to rejoin life;
Fertility in the patch, promising, pervasive, pundit of strife.
A passerby costumed, cold, crimson, creature of night;
Entering the patch, pitying, pleading pumpkins in sight.
The many unimpressed, unique, undulating unfit to carve;
One lonely reject, responsive, resonant, respecting starve.
To the gruesome, gangrenous, gaunt graveyard next;
The passerby seeking, solitary, souvenir skull annexed.
Pumpkin and skull craved, crated, clandestine crept away;
The costumed passerby perilously, pursuing, partying way.
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