The Chupacabra's coming, and he's not a happy camper.

I'd go downstairs for a snack
but I know I'd see the faces
in the windows and doorways.
I'm almost quite sure
that I know whose they are.

It's enough to make me swallow my gum.
It's more terrifying than the music
they play in a dentist's office.

Low rumbling explosions
from the television across the hall
and a plaintive fire siren outside;
I pull the blanket over my head
and pray for a rare dreamless night.
It's no wonder why I sleep
with the lights on sometimes.

But the trick to anything
is the trick to anything else
is this:
If the spider had ran faster
it wouldn't have been smashed
against the tile on the shower wall.

The Mexicans have revised their theory
and the Goat-Sucker is no longer an alien
but a fallen angel punished by God
with its hideous afflictions
and ravenous thirst for blood.
It must be true.
I saw it all on Telemundo.