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Hikmet, the vampire, wasn’t like the others;
He didn’t enjoy sucking blood.
He hated the dark, spiders and bats,
Or wearing capes, the color of mud.
Instead, he’d rather be out in the sun
Playing with the birds and the bees.
He loved to pick flowers and sit by the lake
And doing whatever he pleased.
The other vampires weren’t happy with him.
“This isn’t how a vampire should behave!”
They’d scold him and taunt him and make him cry
With their constant rantings and raves.
But Hikmet ignored them and went for walks
At the beach where he’d look for driftwood to carve.
He put on a swimsuit and flip flops of blue
And tossed away his cape and his scarf.
“This isn’t normal,” his mother would say.
“You’re a vampire and you should be proud.”
She made him write that a thousand times
And recite it to her out loud.
It didn’t do any good, you see.
Hikmet didn’t want to be one of the group.
So he left his homeland and moved to France
And dined on bowls of snail soup.
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