The Mu don’t need no teeth
to suck you dry, my man!
They ain’t flappin’ around as bats
or headin’ off to no haberdashery
or strictly enjoyin’ the night life.
No, the Mu are Hawaiian through
and through. Don’t come from
aristocratic blood by way of
Transylvanian coffin and grave dirt.
No, they dwell in caves beneath the waves.
Come out to shady places and wait.
Stop by some sea-side bench for
a romantic rendezvous, they’ll nab
and strangle you. Drag you to
their fucus-strewn green grotto.
Their lips can stretch over your head.
They just need to pop you open
like a beer can to consume you.
Take their time too, the Mu ain’t
in a hurry to get past the grey paté.