Pumpkin revolution

The pumpkin patch is a scary place
To be in the dead of night.
As when they rise and walk around
They’re a terrifying sight.

Their eyes glow with a flicker,
Their mouths grin wide with malice,
Their yellow skin is palid
Like a bad case of the jaundice.

They hunt them dead in winter months
To place on market shelves,
But beware the angry pumpkins
For they’re thinking for themselves.

They’ve organised a union,
They’re starting a militia
And woe betide the farmer
Who makes his crop turn bitter.

They take the canes that prop the beans
That share the nextdoor bed
And skewer the farmer neatly,
‘Til he’s nearly, almost dead.

They take the flame that lights their eyes
And start a burning fire.
At midnight on the thirty-first
This becomes his funeral pyre.

So, when you’re scooping out their brains
To entertain the kids,
Spare a thought for farmer Giles
Whose life has hit the skids.