The Monster

You fashion nooses
Out of wicker,
Then become a pocket picker,
Licking from the remnants
Of the their bodies as you
Stick things in your pockets—

Like a garish dream,
A firstborn child's dying scream.
All the while, your appetite
Grows thicker—

The child's blood runs down your chin.
You lick your lips and let him in,
Cutting off the mother's hair
And making sure that it's as fair
As gold you weave until it glitters.
Then you start to dance and snicker—

We must learn the monster's name!
They say that he will go insane!

Say it as the jewelry on his hands
Begins to shimmer-
While he sucks the blood off of his fingers—

Here he comes, looking for us!
Monster, what's your name?

In the distance demons cry it—
They'll say it all night as the firelight flickers.
Whatever you do, don't let him in!

I've heard it—his name is Rumpelstiltskin!