Tune

At about the age of ten,
I saw him once but not again.
The man who came from out of town,
The man who wore the blood-soaked crown.

It was the night of Friday eve,
Which from my bed I did not leave.
Out my window I stole a glance,
And saw him there just by chance.

He was tall and thin and made of dark,
His mere presence made dogs bark.
For from his shape he whistled high,
A tune so eerie I can’t deny.

He slinked and stepped along the street,
The sound of sloshing at his feet.
A trail of crimson lay behind,
His next victim he was to find.

He grabbed a blade and on his arm,
He carved a line into a charm.
It was how he kept his body count,
Which looked high from the amount.

A small boy play in a park nearby,
With lots of laughter and a joyful cry.
Then the man turned to him,
A deep grey shadow for a grin.

His face had no features that I could see,
Just deep indents where they would be.
His smile grew wide I must confess,
But nothing prepared me for what was next.

He moved into a jog towards the boy,
Then the child dropped his toy.
He screamed for help but no one came,
He called “Mum! Dad!” and then a name.

A name I had not heard before,
But had seen a few times or maybe more.
It was a name that inspired fear,
But what the hell was he doing here?

He was the stuff of myth, of tales to scare,
With bloodstained clothes and matted hair.
I pressed my face to the glass,
And saw how long the boy did last.

It wasn’t long, in fact was quick,
The boy’s blood was red and thick.
Then the man raised him up high,
The figure then squeezed him dry.

He never stopped his whistled song,
He tapped his foot and swayed along.
As if it were just a show,
His smile did begin to grow.
The blood it ran like a stream,
The cool night air made it steam.
He threw the body to the ground,
It did not move or make a sound.

The boy was dead but he wasn’t done,
The figure laughed as though it were fun.
He pulled a saw and began to cut,
Not the head just everything but.

It wasn’t til he had done his task,
That the man began to laugh.
He threw the bits around the park,
But by this time it was getting dark.

I could not see what happened next,
I just ran over to my desk.
His noise grew loud and from what I could hear,
Was almost whispered in my ear.

It was out of rhythm and made me scared.
And what came next I was not prepared.
On my window I heard a tap,
I looked over and he looked back.

His face was pale as pale could be,
And then he pointed straight at me.
The window opened without a noise,
Blood was dripping, it was the boy’s.

It would seem he wants his tale to be told,
With his skin so pale and his clothes of old.
I sit here writing as he watches,
And on his charm he’s carving notches.

I am aware that he can see
The words I write in front of me.
I hope he decides to show remorse,
Wishful thinking on my part of course.

If you find this and read it through,
I hope he does not come for you.
His legend is his way he moves,
The bloody trail of his shoes.

In stories and songs you’ll find him there,
Please make sure you are prepared.
For if you hear his offbeat tune,
Then he might be after you.

He has his hand upon my shoulder,
The room was warm but now is colder.
I must end this tale of him,
The story of the bloodied king.

At about the age of ten,
I saw him once but not again.
The man who came from out of town,
The man… who wore… the blood-soaked… crown.