The Midnight Rose

A rose in the garden 
 
 grows ever sweeter. 

 Lovely white petals 

 soften a thorny demeanor. 

 Though twinkling between twilights 

its pale beauty casts gloom; 

 a baneful silk shadow 

 by light of the moon. 

 Safe in the small hours, 

 but deadly at dawn: 

 the buds draw in, 

 the thorns begin to yawn. 

 If stung in the light 

 there's no time to feel sick. 

 The petals glow red 

 as blood from the prick. 

 Forget your family, your life, and your friends. 

 Off to a new garden 

 you roam to make amends. 

 To his mistress, the moon, 

 the rose does take. 

 Another stranger - a sacrifice - 

for his mistake. 

 You won't wonder or think. 

 Your mind has gone. 

 As you lie and wait 

 for the last light has shone. 

 When daylight has faded; 

 now covered in dirt. 

 You twist and tangle 

 as stems with white flowers, 

 from your skin, 

begin to spurt. 

Chooglin’

Passed around the campfire, 
like cold whiskey rye, 
has long been a story 
of a river boat on high. 

A siren on a Saturday 
in line with a row of smoke. 
Chugging through the Mississippi 
where fools rock the boat. 

Crying, "don't you believe me!" 
"Well, what's it take?" 
A half soul and three pence 
for a jug and icing on the cake. 

The sirens wailing, 
said, "come have some fun." 
Those sailors jumped right in; 
danced to the sinking sun. 

Hootin' and hollerin' 
to the wild wicked moon. 
As crazed as dog bane, 
but you'll sure pay soon. 

Up came the toll -
hat passed around. 
The sailors had nothing,
not a soul to be found. 

That's what yah' get, boys, 
when you give the devil due, 
but he's a fair poker; 
now you'll be too. 

Folks don't believe me 
when I tell my wary tale. 
Those damned rosewater's  
for a night of glutton and ale. 

Mark my words clearly, 
when you see a ship of white 
turn stern and flee 
or work the Devil's shift all night.