The Creeper's Final Ride

The sun is burning on the highway, a lonely stretch of tar.

Just a brother and a sister and a beat-up rusty car. We saw an

old truck on the road with a license plate of "Eating you,"

a rusty rattling heavy load, and a feeling we can't shoo. Then we saw

him throwing something down, wrapped in a blood-soaked sheet. A scarecrow or

a figure crown, a terrifying silent feat. Because he's the creeper,

on his final fatal ride. He's got his wings open wide, and there's nowhere

left to hide. He's a thing of ancient horror, a monster from the past.