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
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2014
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