Incubus

Your
Incubus, like a
Calculus, will
Measure sex as
Treasure
But gloats too in
Ruts and grunts
Through sleepers it
Screws leaving a
Wild
Child in
Store

Troll

These
Trolls, they’re as
Droll as the
Grumps their
Humps induce;
Grim
Grins cannot
Hide their
Snide looks or the
Rejection (and
Dejection) everyone
Sees

Changeling

Those
Changelings, they’re
Strange things,
Fakes who
Take
All in the
Pall of death,
Steal children’s
Real selves
Leaving just the
Grieving that
Grows