No. 13

The Harvesters Of The Forest

Darkened was the woodland walkway
Strayed on to in drunken folly,
He breathed air rancid, dangerous, synthetic,
Bushes russled foreground and stage left,
Paralytic panic,
A watchful owl observed the disturbed
With eyes full of relentless curiosity,
Mist stole the path to freedon long ago,
Safety was extinct, death seemed imminent,
Pause.
Something this way was comething,
No taller then a ten year old,
Sythe in small hands,
Semi-toothy grin shining like a phat bowl,
The strut of a slut,
The beard of a barberian,
Our protagonist could do nothing
But soil his CK knock-off Y-fronts,
A voice, strained and strong yet
Slippery and short, declared in a thick Cornish accent
"Mmm... those are some fine ass legs"
Before further descriptive narrative could
Be conjoured the sythe lept to life,
Tore boe from sinu like a plaster from balls,
Whole became halves,
Then silence...

Local newspapaers claimed a serial killer
Hacked him to death,
But we know the reality all too well,
Dwarves dine on drunken dickheads