More Funny Halloween Poems

In 2013, we pulled out all the stops to produce some new and unusual Halloween poem for our readers delectation. I've moaned bit in the past that Halloween's a rather limited subject to write about, but set our author's febrile imaginations loose and you'd be amazed what they come up with…

Trick or Treat
Max Scratchman

There was a knock at my door as I paced the hall floor, and I knew, without looking, who I'd meet,
There'd be goblins and witches and zombies with stitches, and they'd joyfully cry out, Trick or Treat!
They'd expect sugar candy and plums soaked in brandy, and cake that I'd pull from my stash,
Peanuts and sweeties and pumpkin-shaped wheaties, plus a ready supply of hard cash.

And like a Biblical flood, they'd be dripping in blood, and they'd tramp it all into my rug,
And it's safe to surmise, that their Halloween guise, will have run up some change for some mug.
So I yell through my 'box, be gone, you're a pox, I have not got sweets for to give,
But they said, listen, you git, we don't give a shit, get some in if you'd like for to live.

But I didn't feel threatened by these juvenile cretins, and I told them, be off, bug the next street,
But they whispered, no dice, now are you going to play nice, and cough-up our Halloween treat?
I said, enough is enough, I was in a real huff, now bugger off and be gone from my door,
You're not warlocks or witches, just underage bitches, so get lost, you're becoming a bore.

But they hit me and bit me, and pinchéd and nipped me, and left me all broken where I lay,
And I could tolerate that scene if it was Halloween, but it wasn't October, it was May.

Guising
Max Scratchman

We called it guising in our day, not trick or treat,
And we carved our lanterns from turnips bought from the grocer's van,
And everyone dressed up, our costumes made from old cowboy suits
And a paper turban left over from last Christmas.

Then it was out into the sulphurous night,
Frost so bitter you could taste it,
Lopsided lanterns flickering as we went from door to door,
Chanting our litany, Wantin' ony guisers?
Plodding into fire-lit living rooms where the TV would be turned down for our party pieces,
The older boy who played the accordion,
Catholic girls who did Irish dancing,
Then me, falling back on reciting The Sair Fing-er,
Eager hands outstretched for worn copper pennies and thruppenny bits,
Sometimes a shilling if old Mr Young was in his cups
And in beneficent mood.

And, years later, I go back to that damp old house,
And answer a knock at the kitchen door,
The night air mingling with that familair smell of gas and old cooking.
"Trick or treat!" they say now, our ghosts long departed
Along with the smog and cinder pavements.
"Throw the little buggers out,"
My mother's voice echoes from the warmth of the living room,
As I hand out sweets.
"Do any of you know The Sair Fing-er?" I ask as they depart,
But the insolent blare of party tooters is my only reply.

What the hell,
Times change.