I know a brute
who eats rotten fruit,
and occasionally stray dogs.
He doesn’t make a fuss
over sores that pus,
or body odor so foul
it’s like a hundred dead owls.
His revolting smile
makes my stomach churn bile.
His gums have begun oozing,
it’s my lunch that I’m losing.
His breath could rot wood
and kill Red Riding Hood.
Bring strong men to their knees
begging spare their lives please.
His hair has more lice
than a sewer has mice.
His hands comb like big rakes
then it snows with great flakes.
Sometime he farts a great melody,
but usually it’s silent and deadly.
He can belch a great chorus
and clear an acre of forest.
But he’s not unhappy in the least
since his wife’s the Wicked Witch of the East.
Wasn’t she squashed by a house you say?
Yes, so he killed Scarecrow and used all his hay.
Then Cowardly Lion who just got his courage,
was all chopped up and added to the porridge.
Dorothy and Toto were next on the list,
so he ground them to a pulp with his big giant fist.
What about the Tinman, what happened to him?
Well he’s the brute I’m talking about, his name is Tim.
He wore the costume so all would not see,
the monster inside who just wanted to live free.
So how do I know him, am I his friend?
No, I’m just a fly on the wall whose life’s coming to an end.
Heed my warning; you’re not in Kansas anymore.
This land of Oz hides grisly creatures galore.
By: Jessica Schmidt