You may have heard talk, whispers at least,

Of this peculiar kind of beast.

One of a kind; practically a wight

That slips through day and flies by night.

It wears a coat that darkens the air

And bares fangs that raise the hair.

But it's more a prankster with little cause to bite.

Quite the bothersome pest, a most meddlesome sprite,

Who with wave of the petals of its fingertips

Dazzles the wanderer just to give them the slip.

It takes many forms for its many games;

It even goes by a great many names.

The fire dog, the hound of loathsome moors,

Some even claim it guards Satan's very doors.

But if you want a gander, even just a little peek,

The most you may see is a passing Black Streak.