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Escaping Transylvania, away from all the mania
Once or twice a year, it's a no-brainier
He packs his pack, and his knapsack
And off to the seaside heads our Drac
One way he can get his jollies
Is turning used tampons into ice lollies
It tastes like frozen, rotten beef
And afterwards he can floss his teeth!
If the coffin is a-rockin', DON'T BOTHER KNOCKIN'
Even if it's honkin', 'cause the lady is a-rotten
He'll be sleeping all day in solid ground
So the kids can't kick a football at his hardwood surrounds
He'll sit in his deckchair in the dark
Then slay drunk women in the nearby park
And after the feast, enter Bar-B-Q Dracula
He can be spectacular armed with a spatula
His skills with meat make them want him more
And he doesn't mind cooking, just prefers his raw
He likes to sip Pymme's at the Marina
Where's your wife? Well, I haven't seen her!
He must've hidden her under his cape
Think yourself lucky if the slag screams 'rape!'
But the holiday that depressed him most
Was the Gothic meeting on the North Yorks coast
At the Whitby weekend, the girls were grim
When he saw them, they even scared HIM!
The black lipstick and the crimped-out hair
Became his only cross to bear
All that make-up looked too fake
At least he didn't get a wooden stake!
copyright Phil Atherton 2019

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I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
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Last few words: 
A slow-release dig at Gothic women, basically. The bane of my teenage existence.
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I have a friend who is convinced she is a vampire. I know i certainly enjoy her love bites.

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