Skellington Bakery (Free verse) by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
If, 'pon the strike of the witching hour
You desire the sust'nance of yeast, wat'r'n' flour,
I pray thee, vis't Skellington Bakery.
I see that the name of the place makes you cower,
But although 'tis within the skellingtons' power
T'eat you, they much prefer cakery.
O'er th'great 'nfernal ovens 'sides "Boney" McBones,
His purg'torial task t'bake infinite scones
In payment for th' Nicknaming 'fPriests.
In perdition's patiss'rie f'r'his crimes he atones;
From th'kitchens drift sounds of his 'pprentices' groans
As they cater for th'underworld's feasts.
Aye, the Dev'l's always searching f'r'a man of dire sin
With man'gerial experience and a cursÃ¨d roll'ng pin
T'augment Hades' culin'ry staff
So beware y'may unwitt'ngly be'pplying t'get in
Next time you c'mmit lewds in the pres'nce of your kin
Or dur'ng sermon pass flat'lence and laugh.
Grim loaves're prepared by the wraiths of Cathari,
Baguettes by heathen negresses in saris;
So mortal, s'lect y'deity with sense.
If 'tis Allah you pray t'with y'last breath, you'll be sorry:
'Neath a wailing sky, e'er-boiling black and not starry
You'll too pay the grave "panitence".
Your fate'll be no gentler'f the Torah y'espouse,
F'when the Jews betrayed Jesu they his wrath did arouse,
And planning permission was sought
F'r'a new 'xtension to th'Bak'ry, especially to house
The pork sausage rolls f'hungry skell'ngtons to browse...
And I'm 'fraid that it's here you'll be "Brot"!
And e'en'f your spir't 'scapes y'r body unsoil'd,
You've not yet the d'signs of the Bakery foil'd;
In th'Lysian Fields they've a man
Who's payed well to'nsure careless souls're encoiled,
Form'd into an eidolic Bagel and boil'd,
To spend perpetu'ty in "pain".
Th'legions of e'er-toiling skellington bakers,
Their furnaces fuell'd by the flesh of the dead,
Etern'lly postpone their 'nc'nt'r w'th th'r Maker,
And knead without rest t' bake chthonian bread;
T'ensnare peccadillists with th' lure of their pastry,
'F which the first sample's free, at the "Skellington Tast'ry",
Where many a soul's come t'gluttonous end,
By 'ngulfing eclairs 'til th'r too dense t'ascend*.
* To Heav'n.
But there's one cake the wise decedent is advised
To procure if he wish's t'exped'ntly rise* --
Just ask for the 'Cream-horne of Jesu'
But t'quire it'll 'xtract fr'm y'a terrible price;
Therefore pay heed, for I shan't tell you how'ts done twice.
I'm not writing simply to please you!
* By which is meant, rise to Heav'n.
In order to 'ssemble the Horne for you,
They require the bones of a hangÃ¨d Hindoo,
And a cup of the rot from his liver;
From his skin you must fashion a bloody canoe,
Then charter his ghost as a skellington crew,
And drift down the unhallow'd river.
The Horne's pastry casing th'Bak'ry'll'pr'vide you, but nary
Whipped cream by the quart and a solitary cherry:
For these y'must find alt'nate supply.
Downstream, by the shore of Persephone's prairie
They'll have "howl" that you need at the Werewolf Dairy...
From here I can guide you no furth'r, shade, be wary
I must return to my ovens, Good bye!
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 7.1
Posted: April 16, 2006 10:17 AM PDT; Last modified: April 16, 2006 10:17 AM PDT
Weighted score: 6.05
Overall Rank: 1209
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