Oh gather round my children, beware the cloak of night,
And quiver while I tell to you, an awful tale of fright,
For they gather in the gutters, they assemble on the stairs,
The Boondocks they are coming, and they always hunt in pairs.
They are stropping up their razors and sharpening their knives,
They’ve already killed their children and they’re going to kill their wives,
They will spot your open window and sniff-out your unlocked door,
And they’ll fillet you with their carving knives, it really will be sore.
You’ll be lying in your bed at night, when suddenly you’ll hear sighs,
And in the velvet blackness, you’ll see their beady eyes,
They live amongst the Cajuns, in the creepy, sleepy swamp,
For Boondocks cannot function, if they have not dark and damp.
They just hate bright sunny colours, and skies distinctly blue,
They live for night and thunder, when they can come for you.
So take care to court the sunshine, pursue the light of day,
And Boondocks will not get you, oh no, not never, nay!
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved