Once upon a pumpkin’s eve, in a town where tricksters weave, lived a boy named Timmy B, infamous for his Halloween glee. Timmy, oh he loved to fright, would spend all day and all night, crafting masks of such gruesome sight, to deliver spoke-tacular delight.
One grotesque mask, the beastliest yet, Timmy called it his greatest bet. It was no ordinary gazette, but a howling werewolf silhouette. Excitement brimmed in Timmy’s heart, as he put on his scary work of art.
Kids scattered in terror, some even fled. Timmy cackled; pure fear he bred. But then, oh then in the moonlight’s thread, a howl echoed, striking dread. A shadow loomed, a growl announced, a real werewolf, he pounced!
“A fine mask,” the werewolf roared. Timmy trembled, completely floored. “But mine’s the best,” was the monstrous retort, “For this is not a mask!” His laughter filled the eerie resort.
From that night, no one forgot, the Halloween when Timmy got, a monstrous fright from his monstrous plot. The irony was a scary thought. In a town where tricksters weave, everyone recollects that pumpkin’s eve!