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.