The Laughing Man

by William Morgan


The woods were dark, the moon was full,

My laugh was manic, my knife was dull,

My prey was running, looking back in fear,

My laugh was unbalanced, my face a leer,

She tripped on a root, squealed like a pig,

My laugh was demented, as I danced a wee jig,

She begged, pleaded, screamed out of her skull

My laugh was psychotic, my knife was still dull

She punched, she clawed, fought like a lion,

My laugh was orgasmic as she lay dyin’

She gasped her last,  her life was done

My laugh was bitter, she’s not The One

About Russ Thompson

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