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The Telltale Venus Flytrap!


        Mrs. Primrose Potter has

        a neighbour in for tea

       "My husband is possessed!"

        she quips, "Horticulturally."


       "How nice." says Mrs. Albacore,

       "but you've no garden plot?"

       "It's in the basement." Rose replies

       "His garden's in a pot!


        It's all been very 'hush hush'",

        Primrose Potter sighs

        but tonight I get to see

        my Valentine's surprise!"


Meanwhile, down the basement

Bertie Potter to the maw

of one giant Venus Flytrap

holds a chicken fresh and raw.


It snaps its horrid thorny fangs

He yanks that poultry back.

"I want you hungry!" Bertie sneers

"Tonight you'll have your snack!"


He bolts the basement door 

skips down the hall with glee

to settle in with Primrose

and Mrs. Albacore for tea.


Across the moon that vile night

clouds scrape like ghostly claws

while downstairs in the basement

Bertie's breaking serious laws.


That evil tuber smacks its lips

then opens up so wide

Bert stuffs in Primrose easily

waaay down deep inside!


The perfect crime, without a hitch!

Bert cannot help but gloat.

He pats the lump that's Primrose

half down that monster's throat


 The deed is done, Bert hits the sack

 for smug and blissful sleep,

 stretching out his arms and legs,

 his laundry in a heap.


 He feels light as leaping lambs,

 as free as soaring lark...

 till stomach churning gurgles rise

 up from that cellar dark!





From snore to floor the felon flies

but all is calm and still.

 He lulls himself to sleep again

 and tasty dreams until...


a further gurgle, loud and wet

springs Bertie from his doze.

"That Godless gurgle is.." he gasps

"that freak digesting Rose!"


Bertie, like some Frankenstein

cries out, "What have I done?"

He creeps downstairs on tippy toes

with spade and rope and gun."


From pot he pulls it roots and all

and hefts it like a sin,

digs deep beneath the cedar hedge

and dumps the Flytrap in.


Next morning's sun shines brightly,

Bert sings opera in the shower,

goes jogging in the dog park,

stops twice to smell a flower.


But sleep did not come that night

for as the night before

gurgles rise like ghosts up from

that wretched basement floor!


As days now slip into weeks

Bert babbles dusk till dawn,

"Gurgle, murgle, murder, AHHH!

how long must this go on?"




He's lost near thirty pounds,

his mental state's in doubt.

He scares the postman half to death

the way his eyes bug out.


A neighbour finally calls the cops,

Bert pounding on his door

yelling words about digestion

and a haunted basement floor.



        A swat team's now on the scene

        while cop dogs paw the hedge,

        Bertie's just being hauled in from

        an upstairs window ledge


        Inspector Mule, in the cellar,

        holds shards of flower pot,

        deducing brilliantly where Bert

        had fertilized his evil plot.


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       "Just stop that hideous gurgle!

        Before I flip my lid!

        Just ask me if I did the crime,

        I did! I did! I DID!"


       "That gurgle, gurgle, gurgling?"

        asks first patrolman, Pat.

       "That's back up on the sump pump,

        you'll need a plumber in for that."