Ghost Hunting on top of Montpelier Hill, Ireland |
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 |