Whitby 2012

The embers glow mysteriously as the breezes pass In Whitby where the terraced houses fell on mass Two new friends sit and chat about the devastating storms And as they sit and talk an old legend is reborn. T'was here that Dracula landed, these many years gone by Bringing his soil in boxes to avenge Elizabeta was his cry Young Morris sits by the fireside glow, twisting his Bowie knife Whittling pieces of wood, the shavings giving the fire new life. Did you hear? Asks Morris, when the houses were demolished A coffin came to light and the plaque on it was polished No what does that mean? His new friend did then inquire Morris told him the tale, not expecting what did transpire. They say it’s true, a coffin filled with earth so black Some say it is Count Dracula, and he is coming back His friend said, this legend has been recalled, many times before I grew up with it in Whitby and it’s becoming quite a bore Nay said Morris whittling, holding the Bowie blade high They say a knife like this killed Dracula, but he didn’t die In truth he called on the dark forces and had them spirit him away To rise one day and avenge Elizabeta, and he will do it one day. Harker slashed his throat with a blade, but when that deed was done As Dracula’ brides screamed out, a new curse had begun They say he would get the descendants of those with the Bowie blade One day when not expected, he will fulfil the curse he made. The breeze whispered down the coastline and caught the embers anew A voice that made his blood cold, a voice young Morris thought he knew His so called new friend sitting by the camp fire on the beach Stood suddenly his arms spread wide and it seemed the heavens screeched. How funny you should talk about me Morris, on this very night The storms rushed into Whitby and my hiding place came to light Your ancestor tried to take my life those many years ago Do you really think the dark forces would ever let me go. I promised I would avenge Elizabeta and this thing I will do She came back to me through Mina, but never think we’re through These years I have lay hidden, in my earth to keep me alive But now young Morris I will take my feed and I promise you won’t survive. The storm did more than move the land, it revealed my hiding place And now on Whitby I will feed, and my brides will show their face My brides will have their way with you; my lips will drink my fill Your heart will then be roasted, but even then they will not kill I swore to your ancestor, I would one day rise and kill And here I am young Morris… who felt his body chill I call upon my brides to take your soul with them So take up your Bowie Morris, when you meet the fatale femme The knife you handle made of Sheffield steel, a Bowie knife I see T'was not a stake, they sharpened, but that blade they sent to kill me You will scream forever more; your offspring will be my brides They will see you pay; they will be your offspring’s guides. Whitby will be the new home, of my own dark sect And although your ancestors fault, it's you time did elect Now there is no soul that I will not fear to take their life And all because young Morris, your ancestor wielded his Bowie knife. Mandy Tams 23/03/2014 Contest entry