Henry Huyten was a boy when he saw the frontier,
where a farmstead did he raise with his family dear:
a sister named Amelia, a mother named Elaine,
a strict and hard-nosed father John, on the windy plain.
Henry Huyten quickly grew into a strong young man
and his mother wisely knew that they would have to plan
for the day her dear young boy would want to find a wife
and move away from the farm to start off his new life.
But Henry Huyten's father was a domineering sort.
"He'll marry who I say he will. Love is just for sport."
And Henry Huyten did not cotton to this idea so well
for he had fallen in the clutches of true love's sticky spell.
Off he went into the night to find his would-be lover,
his mind intent on relaying that he desired no other.
Across the fields went the boy, on a moonless night
to find his girl and propose to her that she be his wife.
But Henry Huyten did not see the garden he ran through
to make it to his bonny girl, his lovely Betty Lu.
A woman came from out the cottage, spying a large youth
tracking flowers, peas, and cabbage, arugula, forsooth!
"Ugh!" she cried, "my garden! You cad, you rake, you cur,
for this you'll pay, you nasty knave, as soon as Sun hits Earth!
And so long as you may live, you offensive, rotgut troll,
only on a moonless night will comfort find your soul!"
Now by this point our good boy Henry had already gone,
halfway to farmhouse of the girl he'd grown so fond,
which explains to you, dear friend, why he showed little dismay
at the curse the witch spoke out so spitefully his way.
He spent the night in her room, discretely and in silence
lest he wake her parents up and inspire a father's violence,
and on these grounds fled the house right before the dawn,
unaware of the curse which had upon him fall'n.
Halfway home the sun rose up, and a strange thing did occur
that his body felt a-fevered, his mind a raging stir,
His whole form contorted into agony and pain,
while fur and fangs protruded, while he screamed in vain.
His feet soon turned to paws, and his hands soon did the same
while his ears grew floppy, long, his legs growing lame
as they pushed and pulled and twisted into longish hinds
and his face pushed ever forward, under magic binds.
He'd become a hound, you see, a mangy little cur,
the type with a baleful look, in redbone striking fur.
Henry dashed right to his house in a blind panic,
barking, bawling, dashing, thrashing, altogether manic.
Henry's father came outside and was taken quite aback
at the hound on his front door, trying to attack
his little girl Amelia, his poor dear wife Elaine,
jumping up and bowing down, again, again, again.
So he took the shotgun off the mantle to dispatch the dog,
while his wife and daughter pleaded with him, agog
that he would kill a hound who just wanted to play,
but he said, "Now I said no. He's got to go. The easy or hard way."
And Elaine, overcome, begged him to spare the hound
and John, convinced, stayed his hand, and took him to the pound
where that night a poor dogcatcher would color himself surprised
to look within a single cage to find a man inside.
