Oscar the Wild

by John Wyatt
copyright 2002

Oscar hates the light of day,
Oscar hates a fire.
You wouldn't ask him out to play,
Oscar is a vampire.

He doesn't seem the sanest sort,
You'd even say he's batty.
Though of his styles I wouldn't sport,
Although he dresses natty.

But if you'd just avoid the flap
And take him as he is,
You'd find he's quite a friendly chap,
With that dapper style of his.

His taste in clothes makes people gape:
A neatly pressed tuxedo,
And over all, a stylish cape.
With all that, where would he go?

The opera is his favorite place,
He has a private box.
But people rarely see his face
For he never stops and talks.

The theater he likes as well,
He has a season ticket,
And though the people give him Hell,
He always plays it Cricket.

The daytime folk don't know him well,
To them he's just a myth.
The other people think him Fell,
From the company he's with.

But why's it make a fellow bad
Because he likes the rats?
Would people think it just as sad
To find he favors cats?

And why's a friendly wolf so wrong?
It doesn't seem quite fair.
For just because he draws a throng,
He doesn't know what's Were.

At parties people start to fear
And never stop to think,
When someone close will overhear:
"He wants a bite to drink!"

Businessmen won't talk to him
Because he's fly-by-night,
And chances really look quite slim
That he'll be treated right.

So Oscar's in a lonely way
Since he's become undead;
Though wenches he has necked with say
"He's really great in bed!"