My brother’s not a werewolf
though it often looks that way.
He has to shave his whiskers
almost every single day.
His feet are getting furry
and his hands are sprouting hair.
His voice is deep and growling
like a grumpy grizzly bear.
He often sleeps throughout the day
and stays up half the night.
And if you saw the way he eats
you’d surely scream in fright.
His clothes are ripped and dirty
like the stuff a werewolf wears.
His socks and shirts are shredded
and his pants have countless tears.
If you should ever meet him
you’ll discover what I mean.
My brother’s not a werewolf;
he’s just turning seventeen.
Copyright © 2011 Kenn Nesbitt. All Rights Reserved.
This poem appears in the book
The Armpit of Doom by Kenn Nesbitt