Poem Number Three from Edna's alter ego, Count ORLOK
O how the lust for virgins' blood rages through my veins,
My thirst for the wondrous elixir of human gore is all-engulfing!
I rise at dusk from my noisome grave, drooling with anticipation
And I soar upwards into the night sky like a bat out of Hell
(which is what I am, so it's no fucking exaggeration is it?).
I go to search out new victims in a new place as my old haunts
Are rather depleted following my ravages on their inhabitants,
But the foul miasma emanating from Wolverhampton's suburbs
Is enough to make me throw up last night's supper on my tuxedo,
And it totally kills my fucking appetite stone fucking dead.
With a shrieked "The West Midlands Conurbation sucks big time!"
I fly off in disgust, a steam of diarrheoa trailing after me,
Like brown stardust.