The Peek-a-Boo

The Peek-a-Boo

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It doesn't matter what I do
I can't escape the Peek-a-Boo.
It fills my head with fearful things;
such horrid, awful songs it sings.

 
It's just a dream, my parents said,
an eerie image in my head.
It isn't real, such things can't be.
Yet, it's not after them–but me.

 
It lives beneath my bed at night.
It stays in darkness, out of sight
until I'm tucked in, safe and warm,
it torments me until the morn.

 
Sometimes the closet's where it hides
among my things, way deep inside.
I know it's there, invisible–
Dad screams at me, “Act sensible!"

 
"This Peek-a-Boo, it isn't real,
it's all those books you read, I feel.
They get inside your sleep-time dreams;
your mind creates these creepy schemes.”

 
But I know better–I know it's there.
To those who don't believe, beware.
The last time Dad came in and said
the Peek-a-Boo was in my head

 
it grabbed him by the throat, then ripped.
Soon, hungrily, it slurped and sipped.
Screams echoed then from Mother's room,
'twas disbelief that sealed their doom.

 
When next your own child screams at night,
and tells you something isn't right,
the Peek-a-Boo, it might be near.
Say you believe, diffuse their fear.

 
Or it will grow so strong, so real
feeding off sheer shock appeal.
For if you don't, you'll see, it's true...
The Peek-a-Boo may come for you!

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