Count Stinkula

Every night he rises
from his lonely tomb.
He reeks so badly that the rats
all scatter in the gloom.
He has never brushed his fangs
in 500 years of undeath.
His bloodlust is only exceeded
by his rancid, putrid breath,
which is far more malodorous
than the most putrefactive quagmire.
He is Count Stinkula,
the halitotic vampire.

Wear a cross around your neck

and a filter on your nose

to protect yourself from the stench

that rises from his toes.

Nobody can long endure

the power of his foetor.

His shoes could surely use

a pair of Odor Eaters.

Would that someone had staked him

and thrown him on a pyre.

He is Count Stinkula,

the bromodotic vampire.

The villagers fear his hypnotic gaze

and the miasma from his ass.

Who knew that a steady diet of blood

could give anybody so much gas?

They shelter in their huts and pray

down upon their knees,

asking protection from his evil

and his backdoor breeze.

They wait for the morning to once again

break upon their shire,

giving them safety from Count Stinkula

the inordinately flatulent vampire. - Jeff Barnes