The Shepherd's Mess

The Sheperd's Mess
By Nickolas Iker

The moon was set, but children still explore.
On the street they run, giggle, and leap,
Racking up their sweet score, as their numbers begin to shrink.
Yet here they lie, as if they're asleep.
One, two - 13 wee little sheep,
Lying in a rather messy heap.

The hubbub of children's laughter still asounding,
Their costumes quite astounding and cheap.
Here am I, lurking in the quiet dark.
On ground where they lie, blood began to seep.
One, two - 26 wee little sheep.
Lying in a rather messy heap.

Mothers, father, cries drowned by excite,
Parent's promises of safety they're trying to keep.
This one, a yellowed skeleton with a grim smile.
One by one grew the pile, very, very deep.
One, two - 39 wee little sheep.
Lying in a rather large heap.

Here is one more dead child,
Oh yes, not a one of them yet a teen.
I bet each had families,
But now they're nothing more than a bloody spleen.
You would be bewildered at what I've seen.
This mass of blood and bone is nothing but a mess to clean.

This is my life, this bloody demented gore.
It's because of a burden I once bore, but now it's on death that I lean.
Time to find another kid to kill, another pleasure to fulfill.
I swear that there's a reason I'm mean!
The children now few and far between,
Are nothing but a bloody mess to clean.

The sun was set, no children explore.
On the street are parents with promises to keep,
Looking for their little sweets, their hope starting to shrink.
And still, here they lie, as if they're asleep.
One, two - 666 wee little sheep.
Lying, all lying, in a rather bloody heap.

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