Montana Gothic Horror Ranch

Way out West down on my luck,
Deep in Montana I was stuck,
Friendless, jobless out of money,
Out of booze - and that ain't funny.
I saw a bill nailed to a pole,
Help was needed I was told,
Far off at a distant ranch,
I grabbed my things and took a chance.

The rancher's name is Frank N. Stein,
He talks real odd but looks just fine,
I fitted in despite my fears,
I've been here for a hundred years.
Ghostly horses plough the fields,
Where sometimes bodies are revealed,
You'll be surprised the things I've found,
Beneath the ancient burial mounds.

There's Banshees in the apple trees,
And sometimes in the summer breeze,
You hear the eerie wails begin,
It helps to bring the harvest in.
I guess it might seem kinda strange,
With vampire cows out on the range,
Wallowing in prairie mud,
Biting necks and sucking blood.

There's zombie roosters in the coop,
Pickin' brains from chicken soup,
No one steals the eggs from here,
Racoons run away in fear.
The pigs are ghouls but I don't mind,
They still make tasty bacon rind,
Eating body parts all day,
(though don't pigs do that anyway?)

All the sheep are lycanthropes,
A quite ironic horror trope,
Most days they're so unimposing,
Full moons they're all in wolf's clothing.
Out where no-one dares to go,
There is a place the freaks all know,
Women faint and brave men blanch,
Montana gothic horror ranch.

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