Corvus Imbrifer (corvus_imbrifer) wrote,
Corvus Imbrifer

Archive: Poem from 'Television Without Pity' Haiku Forum

Boys and girls, come out to play,
The Winchester brothers have saved the day!
They came with their rock salt; they came with their guns,
And attitude: 'Yeah, we're John Winchester's sons!'

They dealt with the Deavas, Rakshasas got nixed,
Tree Gods were pruned, and the Hellhounds got fixed.
The things from the movies, the things from the books,
'Ring' girls in mirrors, those guys with the hooks.

Whoever should call: town, village or city,
(though it helps, truth be told, to be female and pretty)
they'll come with their laptop, their monster-hunt gear,
And all for the price of some crap bottled beer.

Pure hearted, halo-lit faces for sainting,
Bodies of Greek gods assured to cause fainting.
Their car is an auto fiend's deepest, dark wish,
Their music is rock based on some kind of fish.

But lock up your daughters, and some of your sons,
Dean's cocked and loaded (um, no, not the guns).
Mother's concerned that wild oats might be sown
(And Mama's got plans for Dean's oats of her own).

Sam will commiserate, calm and console,
Then hit the books in the researcher's role,
But while Dean's hustling pool and bemoaning his fate
He'll slip out for a snog with some other guy's date.

We'll see.

They banish or vanquish or humble their prey,
The demons to hell, the ghosts sent on their way.
Nothing escapes; well, perhaps just a few...
Vamps? We'll discuss. Reapers? Them, too.

They lay thick the salt on each corpse they exhume,
Torch all the Dreaded White Nightgowns of Doom.
They dazzle the locals, they baffle police,
Dress up as firemen, dress up as priests.

Latin for demons, hair spray for bugs
Old fashion fists for the cannibal thugs.
A church for the truck that can't burn cause it's wet
Silver for werewolves (which we haven't seen yet).

Nightmares and visions of death and of dread,
They succor each other with words left unsaid.
They fight on, so driven, in hopes to compel
Their father's approval... Oh, wait. He's in Hell.

The struggle is hard; their comforts are none,
Will they lay their heads close once the battle is won?
A mystic of Leng cried 'For that do not pray!
When those boys hug, it's the Last Judgment Day!'lj-cut>
Tags: archived poem

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