Yes, it’s true: in this ’hood, there’s a blood-bite clan
that swills, feeds on jug’s after they trepan.
Each night, a carotid caravan.
I don’t want you to grieve; filled with hope, my plan.
Yo! Won’t you stake with me?
Or else folks will bleed.
Just think of that sneering [Christopher] Lee
who snarls chimeric’lly:
I’m trying a promotional
notion to get you hooked, sell you on the role
of deep-pounded throat-severing jerk.
Thus you can make us free, croak him—make it curt.
So, won’t you stake with me?
Your maul’s what I need. . .
placed high above, and aimed clearly,
heart-parting staked he’ll be.
So, you won’t stake with me?!
Cause, mine, you won’t heed?
You don’t love it, I can see.
We’re parting company.

Post-day, later we see
each other. Let’s feed
on great grub, swig cheer freely.
Come carve veined “steak” with me.