Of the man who’s afraid of the moon.
When it’s rising and full, how he yells a loud yell,
For he knows he’ll be changing so soon.
Oh he trembles in fear, as I’m sure you must know,
For he’s under a wicked old curse!
First his hands become paws, then his teeth start to grow,
He gets hairy, and then things get worse!
Yes you’ve heard, I am sure, of the werewolf’s distress,
Once a month, how his life becomes hard.
But you don’t know, of course, of the monster-sized mess
That awaits in the werewolf’s backyard!
The yard, like the wolf, has been cursed to grow wild
When the moon shines down full from the sky.
First the grass, trimmed so neatly and perfectly styled,
Becomes thorns that grow seven feet high!
Then the tulips grow talons, the weeds thrash about,
And the roots get all twisty and grabby.
So the werewolf just sighs, gets the lawnmower out,
Starts it up, and grows ever more crabby.
He goes ’round the yard once, then he wipes off his brow
As he sweats in the humid night air.
Then the mower gets stuck on the sprinkler somehow,
And he howls at the moon in despair!
Oh he battles and roars as the lawn fights him back;
Even daffodils hurt when they bite!
How he sweats and he pants as he makes his attack,
Never stopping ’til morning’s first light.
Then the werewolf collapses right there on the lawn,
And he sleeps ’til the next afternoon.
Every trace of the magic is vanished and gone,
To return, in a month, with the moon.
Every month the wolf hungers and begs, in his thirst,
Just this once, for the thrill of the hunt!
But the townsfolk are thrilled that his backyard is cursed,
And they’re thinking of cursing the front!