Sitting round a camp-fire in the middle of a wood
I spied a dozen vampires eating treacle pud
Upon their bloodless heads they shrugged a ***** cowl
While pacing werewolves at their backs let forth an eerie howl

The setting moon was empty as was their heinous bellies
Before them lay uneaten heaps of pies and sweets and jellies
‘It is no good’, said one, ‘I am sick of this malaise.
What this pudding needs is a spot of Crème anglaise.’