This tale is inked in white:
a silent suite for paws and tail,
a breath of barrow-wights.
as sweet as apples-pie.
before a peal of kirk-bells
disturb your slumbered peace.
You peel your skin from itch
and from the grave-yard
comes a former belle, your past
and with rotting dentures calls,
while from below the groan
of corpses rising, grown from bones,
You bawl in terror, howl, while
you dance in wiles of demon’s ball.
When suddenly awake
you realize your ails
are just resulting from
ales you drank last night.
Today Lill challenge us with homophones at dVerse, I have tried to use a few in this little ditty. Pub opens very soon, come by and have fun.