Abigail Scabes was a beauty
who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
She liked helping little old ladies
and never indulged in abuse.
But she chose to sit down
with strange people in town;
now they say that all Hell was let loose.
Abigail altered that evening.
Her face became twisted and torn.
She walked with a curious swagger.
Her manner was lost and forlorn.
And though she was dead
it went straight to her head
and so sweet ‘Scabby Abi’ was born.
They buried her body at midnight
but evidence later revealed
that though she was dead as a dodo
and her huge gaping wounds never healed…
…Some devilish urge
made her body emerge
through a hole in a neighbouring field.
She came upon Jack Cotton’s farmhouse.
She knocked on the door with three raps.
Oh, why did she pick on poor Jackie?
Oh, he was the nicest of chaps.
They say that poor Jack
had a panic attack
or something more painful perhaps.
He went for his heaviest hammer
and he dealt her the keenest of blows.
He went for the gun in the parlour
which he used for the foxes and crows.
He blew out an eye
then he heard her reply,
‘I’m a monster and everyone knows.’
She felt the full force of both barrels.
They went off with a deafening boom
in one side and out through the other
and bits of her flew round the room.
Then what followed next
when the girl wasn’t vexed
was a feeling of imminent doom.
As soon as this skirmish had ended
another encounter began.
He went for his cigarette lighter
and he emptied a paraffin can.
An inferno arose
that went straight up her nose
and she carried on after her man.
But Jackie had one final flourish.
Allow me to calmly assert
that they wrestled across the whole farmyard
and they rolled through the mud and the dirt.
A kiss was exchanged
that left Jackie deranged.
(Oh, our Ab was a terrible flirt.)
Abigail Scabes was afflicted
with gangrenous wounds unattended.
She wandered about looking sickly
and no broken bits ever mended.
A kiss for young Cotton
left him feeling rotten
and all kinds of trouble descended.
So Abi and Jackie were stricken
and one local journal reports
of nights when they sit in a huddle
examining each other’s warts.
Though it leaves me quite numb
my strange verse has become
a romantic ballad of sorts.
A zombie just can’t be defeated
by any old means that you try.
Their legacy won’t be deleted
I say without word of a lie.
You can burn them and chop them
but you’ll never stop them;
you can’t get the blighters to die.
And so as my ballad is ending
the room all about me is spinning.
You won’t hear this minstrel pretending
this battle is one that we’re winning.
There is Abi and Jack
but with each new attack……
well, we’ll have to start at the beginning.
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