To My Wayward Sons (Supernatural Poetry)

Crazy People

We hunt ghosts, poltergeists, and other monsters

With shotguns, holy water, and salt shakers

We get rid of horrible creatures that wanna kill us

Or worse, those monsters who just wanna eat us

.

While normal people run away, we continue to search

Into signs of danger we simply fall headfirst

We chase the monsters when they're already running away

From us, for we ensure that they'll never see the light of the day

.

Eight hours a day spent inside the Impala, as we cruise

And I drive way too fast and listen to the same five albums

I also sing along to them loudly, an annoying tune

While Sam is mad toxic, only half a burrito to get gaseous

.

There's also the terrible greasy day-old diner food

And the truck-stop waitress with the bizarre rashes too

There's the roach-infested skeevy mouldy motel rooms

Travelling place to place, where it's all dark and gloom

.

We are hunters, and what the hell, we are crazy people

Leading the strangest lives, we are very much insane

But the craziest thing is that it doesn't even matter

Because I still love this wacked-up crazy life all the same.