R & D

Rented room for me, a storyteller,

Said my landlord, don’t go in the cellar,

Each night I heard some inhuman yeller,

So I snuck downstairs to find this dweller.

Lo and behold, a basement full of guys,

Let me tell you, this was quite a surprise,

Torture chamber where they did agonize,

Some missing limbs, others, ears, tongues, and eyes.

Attached to the wall, in shackles and chains,

Blood-filled tubes running in and out of veins,

Some cracked-open skulls and jars full of brains,

A horrific scene, these human remains.

This had to be some kind of sick study,

As evidenced by the ground all muddy,

Completely soaked and awfully bloody,

I turned quickly, feeling rather cruddy.

And there sat my landlord in a bathrobe,

Happily dissecting a frontal lobe,

Lighting areas with some sort of strobe,

Blissfully occupied by her sick probe. 

I cautiously snuck by her with no sound,

Attempting to blend into the background,

I bolted as my feet touched solid ground,

No way in hell I was hanging around.