Spooked Mr Johnson
Old Mr. Johnson, with broom in one hand,
Told his sweet granddaughter, “Sleep, not grandstand!”
Her room was empty, the air grew cold—
Only the Ouija sat silent and bold.
He muttered and shivered, “No time to wait,”
Grabbed his truck keys and zipped past the gate.
The cemetery whispered secrets in dark,
As shadows danced under trees in the park.
The moon played tricks with every headstone,
A voice cried “Grandpa?” in a ghostly tone.
He spun ‘round fast, tripped on a grave,
Landscaped his pants—wasn't feeling brave.
Tombstones echoed with spectral delight,
A squirrel popped out, gave him a fright.
“Mabel!” he yelled, “Get out of this place!”
But no one answered, just wind in his face.
With tires screeching, he fled like the breeze,
His truck was airborne near two maple trees.
He got home, jumped in bed with a moan,
“Should’ve bought her that Barbie phone…”
Later that night, beneath moonlight's beam,
Granddaughter giggled from inside a dream.
“I told the spirits to make him run,
Now he’ll never call bedtime fun!”
So Mr. Johnson stays tucked in tight,
A flashlight gripped till the morning light.
And if you hear wheels spin at twilight’s ring—
It’s Grandpa practicing ghost-evading drifting.
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
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