There’s a dreary mist on the canal,
As the moon shines brightly down.
On shopping trollies and ducks,
Drifting silently all around.
Then suddenly without warning,
A scaly head comes up for air.
The Beast from the Black Country,
Is leaving its watery lair.
The creature’s nose twitches,
On the breeze a scent it’s catching.
The monster knows its prey is near,
It can smell pork scratchings.
The Beast creeps down the road,
Its webbed feet silent on the street.
It claws scratch at the pub window,
As in for scratchings it tries to reach.
You’ll never notice when you drink a beer,
That outside the beast is lurking.
Then when you pop out for a cigarette,
It gobbles down your scratchings.
So when you return to your table
The arguments will begin.
You shout “who ate all my scratchings?”
As outside the creature grins.
Stuffed the Beast retreats,
Sinking back into the canal.
No clue left to its presence,
Except a fried pork smell.
So if you see the Black Country Beast,
Feed it scratchings or crisps but.
You would be very, very unwise,
If you let it nibble your nuts.