After twelve days of preparation,
The fatal Friday fell
When the people of Lost Creek, Kentucky
Went down the road that led to Hell.
Under light of dead-star constellation,
Those poor folk walked along the road,
And though a black-cat crossing read an omen unlucky,
No one thought of the weight that symbol bode.
Except for one young girl,
Usually nervous, and locked up in her shell,
Six months away from turning seven,
The sweet little blonde-haired Annabelle.
Her wide-open eyes saw the leaves’n’wind twirl,
As the townsfolk walked under trees like arching ladder.
She saw that the path lead not to the house of Heaven,
But no one thought that her cries did matter.
The townsfolk continued on the walk
And a light rain sprinkled like spilling salt.
They came to a puddle that looked like a mirror,
Which broke underfoot, as none did over it vault.
And when their wagons wheel hit a rock,
The thump startled the people of the town.
Annabelle whimpered, but no one did hear her
When she saw the lucky horseshoe fall U-side down.
The people on their journey went on and on around,
That path that snaked like a rivers tail.
And only young Annabelle had seen the streaks of fur
But her warnings were to no avail.
They kept on talking, and didn’t hear the sound,
As their prayers were cycling like a carousel.
None of the townsfolk noticed the werewolves bolt in a blur
Except for young blonde-haired Annabelle.
The rest of the story, I wish not to tell
For I want not to think of poor Annabelle.
Who longed for nothing more than the ol’ homestead
And now on that road, she lies cold and dead.
For although those pilgrims each had loaded gun,
Had they no chance to ever outrun
The wolves that hunt under lack of sun,
On those who are devoid of luck, and those folks had none.