Don’t ever dine with Frankenstein;
he feasts on flaming turpentine.
He chomps and chews on soles of shoes
and quaffs down quarts of oily ooze.
At suppertime he’ll slurp some slime.
He’s known to gnaw on gristly grime.
His meals of mud and crispy crud
will curl your hair and chill your blood.
His poison, pungent, putrid snacks
may cause you seizures and attacks.
Your hair may turn completely white.
You may pass out or scream in fright.
Your skin will crawl.
Your throat will burn.
Your eyes will bulge.
Your guts will churn.
Your teeth will clench.
Your knees will shake.
Your hands will sweat.
Your brain will bake.
You’ll cringe and cry.
You’ll moan and whine.
You’ll feel a chill
run down your spine.
You’ll lose your lunch.
You’ll lose your head.
and dine with me instead.
Text © Kenn Nesbitt, reprinted from Dinner with Dracula, published by Meadowbrook Press. Illustration © Mike and Carl Gordon. Any copying or use of this poem or illustration without consent is unlawful.
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