This is Umbreon's Poetrydex entry. Comment and enjoy!


The night is dark,
The night is young,
The night means hunting,
Hunting is fun.

It's silently stalking,
Your pray what a game,
The death that result,
Though is such a shame.

My owner provides me with food.
But that can't match the thrill,
Of losing or winning, of hitting
Or missing the kill.

The moon is obscured,
The cold in the air,
Suits me well,
But not you, how unfair.

Whilst dark is
Your last day
Is ending.

I'm sorry,
But your death,
Is necessary,
For my next breath.

I refuse to be alive,
When I cannot hunt.
And so for my disposition,
You must bear the brunt,

Of misfortune,
With fangs in your throat,
Screaming, oh screaming,
"Murder she wrote!"

And I am a murderer,
And I refuse to refute,
Unremorseful killer,
This is the truth.

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