I sprint away; as off creeps the dark, me’s sentient.
I have far roamed,
Peeping into windows, not to see the show
But to flesh-eat, maul ’em, bite ’em, mouth bestow.
I am a Lon; I am a wild thing.

I scale walls, my “forks” in deep for biting—
These canines penetrate.
You have to bleed from rend-drip; rend-rip causes pain;
I’m lapping up the lusciousness; you’re drained.
I am a Lon; I am a wild thing.

Don’t talk of lunch!
I’ve had GERD from girls before—
From eating in a menses spree.
I will disturb your slumber
By feeding on your side:
It’s a fleshy lunch once I have stretched your hide.

I am a Lon;
I’m not a ’pire thing.

I never cook.
When the potpourri’s dissected,
I am eating raw your arm, sir.
Why I’m not entombed, you ask ere your doom. . .
A tough-bone crunch, then bone-brunch tonguingly.

I am a Lon;
I am not smiling.

But a Lon can be tamed:
Gat with argentine—I die.