The March of the Autumn Pumkins

by Ethan Talbert

The night was dark, the air was chill,

the moon half shrouded in a cloud;

and sitting silent on the hill

the pumpkins almost laughed aloud

For farmer Brown (who closed the gate)

had gotten focused on a star,

and as he gazed in ‘raptured state,

had left the wooden door ajar.

Chuckling in rebellious glee,

the pumpkins hatched their evil scheme.

The lonely shadow of a tree

had magnified the eerie dream.

In stately row on stately row

the pumpkins lumphed into the dark.

The moon’s faint gleam would sometimes glow,

lighting a pumpkin like a spark.

As they waddled down the hill,

a lone, black cat observed the sight.

The kitty got a nervous thrill,

meowed, and ran into the night.

But Ron McPhee, the dotty man,

was wide awake. Looking about,

he saw and guessed the pumpkins’ plan.

“I told those farmers they’d get out.”

The pumpkins marched on to a ledge

that overlooked the rocks below.

The farmer watched, as off the edge—

they boldly marched on row by row.

 

McPhee determined not to say

exactly how the pumpkins died.

No one’d believe him anyway,

and every farmer has his pride.

The night was dark, the air was still

the moon half shrouded in a cloud,

and standing silent on the hill,

the farmer almost laughed aloud.

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