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In the hushed whispers that travel on moonlit nights, a tale unfolds. It speaks of a creature cursed, a shadow lingering in a small town.

This poem is a haunting melody, a ballad of the wan undead. We delve into the torment of a vampire, forever yearning for the life he once knew, a life filled with laughter, the warmth of the sun, and the simple pleasures like enjoying meatballs garnished with garlic and onions…

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He was yet another small town vampire,
Like all spooks of this genre, allergic to garlic and onions.
Prior to turning, he had a liking for Italian cuisine,
Like his erstwhile human companions.

Sipping on a bag of blood, he’d moan,
“What a bloody wanion…. I miss me meatballs,
Wid dem garlic and onions.”
I sleep by day dreaming of pasta and risottos.

Then roam aimlessly all night.
The dogs bark, the birds flee;
The barking and the flapping of wings echo…
I almost die of fright.

Can I? Well folks, that is a mystery.
The vampire community is shocked…
It’s a wanion… the first sheepish vampire
In their history.

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