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Out on a Montana prairie my  wee Grammy
had built a little white house with a picket fence.
Civilization hadn’t crawled out that far yet,
so nights were warm and dark was dense.

By the melted-butter flames of kerosene lamps
we would sit on the porch and quietly speak.
Always I asked for stories about London town,
where Grammy went from Ireland, new life to seek.

One story was my favorite, curdled my blood
and ran fire fingers through the blood in my vein.
I suppose nowadays with all the video games
Grammy’s story might seem silly and too tame.

“T’was foggy as a witch’s grave that night when
me feet took a little stroll down White Chapel lane.
Excited I was to be in this place by meself, alone.
Then I saw. . . it, enough to make a gal insane.”

“T'were big and smelled of sewage and slime.
Reared up out of a foggy bank to look at me.
I tell you, child me feet froze to the road and
I was sure t'would be the last thing I’d see.”

“Licked his chops, this nightmarish heathen,
looked at me like I was a steak and kidney pie.

“I looks right back with that “look” a mine,
stood me ground raising me fist to seem brave
Twas blood in his eye and blood on his fur, the he
burps and it smells like something from the grave.”

“Poor lamb, he got into someone who wasn’t ripe.
From me apron pocket I give him a peppermint.
The fog rose higher, taking him out of my sight,
to this day I have no idea where that werewolf went.”

So if ever you find yourself in England in the fog,
watch your step on the White Chapel Road at night.
For I imagine he is hungry again and a chubby 
like you might be a most tempting and tasty sight.

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