Our neighbor is a werewolf
and I know this for a fact.
He may look like he’s human
but I’m certain it’s an act.
I figured out his secret
on my own the other day.
And now I’m warning everyone
to scream and run away.
I know that he’s a werewolf now.
I have no doubt because
who else would want to live inside
a were-house like he does?
The Mattress Factory Superstore
is owned by dear old Fred,
or, as he’s better known,
the Monster Underneath Your Bed.
His beds are cold and clammy
just the way a monster likes.
He also offers beds of nails
and mattresses with spikes.
His waterbeds are filled with sharks,
piranhas, eels, and squids.
But, just in case, Fred also carries
comfy beds for kids.
And Fred makes sure that every mattress
always feels alright
by checking every bed he sells you
EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.
The dragons run the fire department
down in Monster Town.
when there’s a building burning down.
They carry ropes and hoses.
They have buckets full of sand,
which, every afternoon, they practice
passing hand to hand.
They’ve got a truck and ladder,
and a siren they can blare.
They’ve even got protective hats
and boots and underwear.
But every time that there’s a fire
they stand around and pout.
Unfortunately, dragons stink
at putting fires OUT.
Melvin the mummy, who lived near the Nile,
had worked as a mummy for more than a while,
for mummies can go their entire careers
without a vacation for thousands of years.
He guarded the pyramids day after day
to frighten the burglars and bandits away,
which meant, as he stood watching over the pharaohs,
he often got shot at with bullets and arrows.
His job was so stressful, the pay was so poor,
but, still, Melvin stayed and protected the door.
Until he got sick of his sad situation
and knew that he needed to take a vacation.
His crypt was so dark and so cold and so clammy,
he packed up his swimsuit and flew to Miami.
He thought he would stay there for just a few days,
enjoying the beach and absorbing some rays.
But, sadly, poor Melvin would never return,
and this is a lesson all mummies should learn:
Don’t take any trips or, like Melvin, you’ll find
vacations make mummies relax and unwind.
My brother’s not a werewolf
though it often looks that way.
He has to shave his whiskers
almost every single day.
His feet are getting furry
and his hands are sprouting hair.
His voice is deep and growling
like a grumpy grizzly bear.
He often sleeps throughout the day
and stays up half the night.
And if you saw the way he eats
you’d surely scream in fright.
His clothes are ripped and dirty
like the stuff a werewolf wears.
His socks and shirts are shredded
and his pants have countless tears.
If you should ever meet him
you’ll discover what I mean.
My brother’s not a werewolf;
he’s just turning seventeen.
I’m Boney Mahoney,
the Skeleton Singer.
I’m known for harmonious tones.
I’ll croon to the tune of
a jaw harp or hand drum.
I’ll trill to the sound of trombones.
To have me start humming
just tickle the ivories.
I’ll sing if you finger a bell.
I’ll rap if you slap at
a washboard or rattle.
I’m hip to the nose flute as well.
If you’re a musician
in search of a singer,
give Boney Mahoney a call.
But find someone else if
you only play organ;
I sing with no organs at all.
Halloween is nearly here.
I’ve got my costume planned.
It’s sure to be the most horrific
outfit in the land.
If you should see me coming
you may scream and hide your head.
My get-up will, I guarantee,
fill every heart with dread.
My costume may cause nightmares.
Yes, my mask may stop your heart.
You might just shriek and wet yourself,
then squeamishly depart.
And yet, I won’t be dressing as
you might expect me to.
I will not be a vampire
or ghost that hollers “boo!”
I won’t look like a werewolf
or a goblin or a ghoul,
or even like a slimy blob
of deadly, dripping drool.
I will not be a zombie
or some other horrid creature.
No, this year I’ll be much, much worse…
I’m dressing as a teacher.
If you should need a t-shirt
or perhaps a pair of socks,
the Werewolf has you covered,
for it’s stockings that he stocks.
His shop has briefs and boxer shorts,
brassieres and BVDs,
suspenders, slips, and other
undergarments such as these.
He’ll find you flannel long johns,
which he stocks in “his” and “hers.”
And, yes, he does have diapers
for his baby customers.
No matter if it’s undershirts
or tights you’re looking for,
the underwear is over at
The Underwearwolf Store.
I think my dad is Dracula.
I know that sounds insane,
but listen for a moment and
allow me to explain.
We don’t live in a castle,
and we never sleep in caves.
But, still, there’s something weird
about the way my dad behaves.
I never see him go out
in the daytime when it’s light.
He sleeps all day till evening,
then he leaves the house at night.
He comes home in the morning
saying, “Man, I’m really dead!”
He kisses us goodnight, and then
by sunrise he’s in bed.
My mom heard my suspicion
and she said, “You’re not too swift.
Your father’s not a vampire.
He just works the graveyard shift.”
When Frankenstein was just a kid,
he ate his greens. It’s true. He did!
He ate his spinach, salads, peas,
asparagus, and foods like these,
and with each leaf and lima bean
his skin became a bit more green.
On chives and chard he loved to chew,
and Brussels sprouts and peppers too,
until he ate that fateful bean
that turned his skin completely green.
He turned all green, and stayed that way,
and now he frightens folks away.
Poor Frankenstein, his tale is sad,
but things need not have been so bad.
It’s fair to say, if only he
had eaten much less celery,
avoided cabbage, ate no kale,
why, then, we’d have a different tale.
So, mom and dad, I’m here to say
please take these vegetables away
or my fate could be just as grim.
Yes, I could end up green like him.
So, mom and dad, before we dine,
please give a thought to Frankenstein.