THE CURSED, by Julio Toro San Martin and Hank SimmonsOld woods, where darkness lay, a livid dream,
Partaking of a black and bitter draught;
Where cursed men howled in lycanthropic scream,
At tug of Luna’s foul gleam throughout.
Your blasted trunks, uprooted from their stems,
By those within and those without the earth,
Housed living corpses, unsightly ghoulish gems;
That, blasphemously, ascending from their berths,
Crept, as I, into the newer homes of men;
Malefic and intent on evil gain;
Their crimson hearths warmer than your haunted glens.
Migration hence we cannot now refrain.
Our paws rest lightly on town and city beds,
While we flense the skin from their owner’s heads.
