Watchful, watchful, watchful was the eye of Warren Weis.
If anyone of him spoke ill they’d surely pay the price.
Warren wore an ascot painted pink from faded red,
Those who cracked their jokes and laughed did surely end up dead.
No nonsense Warren, would but warrant, no tomfoolery,
he’d take you down and strip your crown of priceless jewelry.
Watchful, watchful, watchful was the eye of Warren Weis.
Unless you disrespected he elected to be nice.
Warren was a well-dressed merchant in the streets of London town,
folks of rude who copped a ‘tude were sure anticipated drowned.
To convolute his gun would shoot and all would focus on the sound,
But nay did they, know what dismay, would soon emerge from underground.
Watchful, watchful,watchful was the eye of Warren Weis.
You’d think he didn’t see you but in fact he saw you twice.
Warren sported spectacles, that crept until they sprang.
In silhouettes and shadows near the crowds is where he’d hang.
Upstream he’d float and take his notes with pen on weathered pad,
A man so sane would board the train and exit barking mad.
Watchful, watchful, watchful was the eye of Warren Weis.
A smile warm concealed the storm within that brewed of ice.
No customer or client could deny it, he seemed shy.
but Warren’s eye was watching all who dared to hear its cry.
“Warren” they would call him, “Mr. Weis!” his cross reply,
were this the case in quiet place, a victim’s swift goodbye.
Watchful, watchful, watchful was the eye of Warren Weis.
An eye that looked so much it took to mentioning it thrice.
A gangrel creature with the features of a downbridge troll,
elusive as a rodent it’s as though he lurked in holes.
He walked so slowly yet would always reach them in the end,
they’d try to hide but on their side no luck was to descend.
Watchful, watchful, watchful was the eye of Warren Weis.
For only one acquaintance did he faintly paint advice.
Clarence Cline, “a friend of mine,” you’d not hear Warren say,
relentless with apprentice to the world’s dry dismay.
Now to his minion, passed opinions, as he also passed the torch,
so Clarence Cline has time to shine while Warren Weis sits on his porch.
Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful was the mind of Clarence Cline.
A slender man with no life plans who had a twisted spine.
More gangrel than his mentor he was meant for wicked deeds,
he liked to eat his victim’s feet, upon them he would feed.
The bodies he’d deposit in a closet in his home.
He’d sleep throughout the day and then would wake at night to roam.
Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful was the mind of Clarence Cline.
His mind was sick internally though he seemed rightly fine.
His smiles lasted whiles though behind them there was hate,
he’d beguile man and child and would sternly seal their fate.
Deception was his art and quite the artist he became,
he painted reds from dead who bled, the ones that he had claimed.
Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful was the mind of Clarence Cline,
dreadful since the months he had left in the womb were nine.
Evil since his birth he loved to hurt the ones he knew,
until he hurt them all, he had to call on victims new.
The stare from in his eyes was no surprise so very blank,
he loved the sound of when he’d pound his casualties with planks.
Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful was the mind of Clarence Cline,
he would torture on the porch or out back with the swine.
He lurked in places dreary, for a lonely weary soul,
his goal was sole to play the role of putting them in holes.
He was unlike Warren for he seemed not shy or kind,
“if you get caught you’ll wish you’d not,” his mentor would remind.
Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful was the mind of Clarence Cline,
In chalices his malice would exacerbate with wine.
He loved to drink and stink of pink rosé in every breath,
he would take a sip and further trip with every death.
One night he picked a fight outside a pub in public view,
arrested, he then tested, for his crimes declared taboo.
Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful was the mind of Clarence Cline,
so shameless he pled blameless of his crimes he did decline.
He told the town to look around for Mr. Warren Weis,
telling stories of the gory things he did precise.
So Warren Weis then got hung twice for all their wicked deeds,
while Clarence Cline got off the line and henceforth he was freed.
AML Author 