The Ghost on Montpelier Hill

A chill crawled up George A. Hormel's spine,
Because he didn't know what he would find,
As he stepped into the Hell Fire Club.
He knew it wasn't a normal Irish pub,
And that its stone walls were probably curst,
So he might leave in a long black hearse.

His only desire was for ghostly spam,
He didn't want to meet the cloven-hoofed man,
Who stalked the halls looking for jellied ham.
He could feel last night's pub crawl screaming for escape,
Since he didn't have Depends^® or any duct tape,
He'd have to find a water closet without ado.

He rushed through the halls looking for a bathroom,
But the only thing he found in the club's gloom,
Was a spam colored gigantic spittoon.
Taking a deep breath he mounted the spittoon's steps,
Unbuttoned his fly and let it rain,
From behind he felt someone poke him with a cane.

He turned around to see a hand of ectoplasmic spam,
Holding a large hickory-smoked dark red Virginia ham,
Giving a blood curdling feminine scream
He grabbed the ham and tried to flee,
But all he did was fall and break his knee,
Because he slipped on a puddle of ecotplasmic spam.

Word Count: 24