It’s a Stephen King nightmare 
He has a cesspool in his head
Where ghouls, spooks and gore
Get into your bed.
But no one switches him off
Because you never know when he might
Write about you and your death.

Delving into deep wells of blood
With arms dripping flesh fading
Mr King is wallowing in sores and vomit
But why worry – people buy it anyway
Maybe, there isn’t enough horror
In most people’s suburban wonderland.