Zombies are waddling toward their door. Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching, And the ghouls want brains and more.
But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet, They’re waiting inside, Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.
It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw; And they love to eat their spiders raw, Not fried with onions, like Granda; Or served with broccoli, like Nana.
Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers. Ciaran eats those, Not these crazed daughters.
Ophelia and Brig Eat them raw, Alive, not dead, With wiggly legs and sharp jaws; And wrapped up with mosquito heads In white sticky spider webs.
They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood And wicked witch’s poo; Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools, That witches eat to soften stools.
They eat fat spiders Floating in soup, That slide and wiggle Down their throat.
They eat them with their mouldy cheese, Melted over wasps and bees.
The girls fork down spider stew, They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”
The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit, And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.
They like their spiders spread on bread, A feast to feed the risen dead.
When their snack is finally done, They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat. The long legs caught between their teeth.
They'll use those legs to weave a wreath, To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Wrote this for my twin grandaughters, Brig and Ophelia. Ciaran is my grandson. The girls hate spiders. Probably moreso now.