The Shrike

Before i lay me down to sleep i pray the lord my soul to keep because its then the shrike creeps in with sharpened teeth and sickly grin.

From some dark corner creature crawls past cruserfix upon the wall beside my bed the foul thing stands then bends to touch my trembling hand. It licks my cheek and drinks my breath this evil thing that reeks of death.

He tells me things i shouldnt know and shows in nightmares long ago of poor dead children hung in trees their bodys swaying in the breez there twisted faces eyeless holes a larder full of totured souls.

A nail,
a noose,
a steak,
a hook, my eyes tight closed carnt bare to look. Babies crying held by spike the children of the deamon shrike.

And now he sits under his tree he says he has a branch for me and all unlucky children to, he may just have a branch for you.