Pie face

Don’t go out tonight, 
my little man.
Oh no, don’t.
Especial, not behind the broken barn
by the woodpile
under the crooked elm.
I seen him there last night
when I was takin’ a pee.
Buddy kilt ‘im.
Cooked ‘im up in a pie.
It’s he’s ghost, I tell ye.
Got lips so horble.
He’s eyes drippin’ blood.
He grab me,
says “Yer not the one”
“be bringin’ me the younger fer a bite”
“Oi wait tomorrer and then the night”
“If ye don’t come, then yer the one”
Don’t go out tonight,
little man.
I love ye so.

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