The Spottsville Monster

I’m currently working on a song with Croydon Tourist Office based on eyewitness accounts of a strange monster in the town of Spottsville, Kentucky. I’ve spent a fair bit of time in small towns in places like West Virginia, Virginia and Pennsylvania, and they all seem to have local legends about monsters and Bigfoot and the such.

The Spottsville Monster

I didn’t believe at first but then
I came around.
A pile of feathers from 16 dead chickens,
The bones of a goat,
A strange howling in the night.
And there, do you see that?
In the pasture.
It’s huge!
This is giving me the creeps.

A lone motorist on Baskett Lane
Saw a hairy ape-like thing caught in
The headlights,
The dew glistening on its hairy flanks.
It looked up with an evil intent,
Then sidled into the trees.
I didn’t want to tell him
That I believed.

Gun-toting ape hunters eager for the kill
Sheltering from the rain in a long abandoned barn.
Cup of tea, lads?
Tommy Thompson says he saw it,
Pointed fangs and strange red eyes that
Frightened him to the soul,
Peering in through the
Laundrette window.
Would’ve shot it too, says he,
But I was only in my boxers.

Are you okay, my precious?
Let me stroke your frightened chest,
Smooth down that clammy grey fur.
My neighbour says he saw you
Silhouetted against the Seven Eleven Neon,
Just a glimpse,
Sadness in your eyes,
Or was it the reflection
Of the Coca Cola machine?

A government investigator swore blind
That it was just a very hairy person,
A long-hid throwback, some Neanderthal
In the gloaming,
Or maybe just local youths with a discount coupon
At the fancy dress shop.
The government inspector was found in the woods.
Well, bits of him.

Midnight howling in the western Kentucky bottom lands.
Entranced, I go a-wandering,
Floating above the ground on ethereal mists,
She’s calling to me, she sings
With all the beauty of the ages,
Let us dance under the stars,
Let us make these fools into gibbering wrecks,
Just by being different.

Gun-toting ape hunters eager for the kill,
The Spottsville Monster.
A pile of feathers from 16 dead chickens,
The Spottsville Monster.
A government investigator swore blind
That it was just a very hairy person,
The Spottsville Monster.
Either friendly or malignant depending on the
Content of your heart.
The Spottsville Monster.
Alone in the woods, it’s rancid breath on my neck.
The Spottsville Monster.