The Curse of New Orleans

The Curse of New Orleans


She cannot speak...can only groan.
Her clothes are torn, her hems un-sewn.
With eyes aglaze, and filmy white.
She sleeps by day, awakes at night.

New Orleans curse...the witches spell,
Her heart beats not, within its well.
At home, the swamp down near the lair.
A wad of moss in tangled hair.

Her skin is grayish green, nails black.
She'll claw at you with sloth attack.
For blood and flesh, her passions lust,
She has to dine... it is a must.

With crippled leg, she drags the earth.
She wears a frown and feels no mirth.
Her cronies join, to storm the town.
They love to march and scout around.

Some living soul on which she'll feed.
Fresh blood, the tonic that she'll need.
It only takes one fang, one drop,
To pass the curse...three days to stop.

Her zombie head, you must detach,
And bury in a pumpkin patch,
To end her curse, with body twitch.
Her carcass down a graveman's ditch.

So don't go near the swamp at night,
Or wander on these streets of fright.
You won't escape the VooDoo spell,
Unless you've listened very well.