RL Stine #poem Of Horrors Cold was the night, the air had a fright. As they stagger by, being devoured by a fly. A never ending thirst, they say the bites are the worst. This rotting corpse is a demons morph. Is this what God calls a joke? Us poor falling folk? Why are we so shy, not that it is our time to die? The world must come to end, for we have so little time to spend.
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