You’re told to stay in; you do not.
You stray post-dinnertime.
A bold acquaintance you’ll have wrought;
you’re waylaid at cold-fangs time.

Your cold-fangs time is here—
scored cold-fang tines.
He’ll drink it up till dry you get—
a buffet of cold-fangs dine.

He’s surly as he dries you up,
and pearly are his tines.
He’ll make you wish you’d listened up,
but he’s slaked from cold-fangs dine.

This dude is lapping up a stream
of red that’s crimson bright.
He’s seared your neck; pours forth a well
of type A at gorged sang[uination] time.

You’re told to stay in, but you trot
away, and now you find:
Your old way of life has been shot;
you’ve been made the cold-fangs kind.