“What if Dracula ate a garlic pizza?”

In the moonlit gloom of his castle keep,  
Count Dracula stirred from a dreamless sleep.  
The bats hung low, the shadows deep,  
But tonight, he hungered for more than sheep.

His ancient fangs ached with a curious yen:  
Not blood, not wine—the fare of men.  
His gaze fell on a humble pie,  
A pizza, cheesy, steaming high.

But not just any midnight snack—  
This pie bore cloves all roasted black.  
Garlic, sliced and nestled neat,  
A mortal flavor, rich and sweet.

He hovered close, his eyes agleam,  
Entranced by wafting, fragrant steam.  
Could he, the prince of darkness dread,  
Resist this treat with golden bread?

He took a bite—a daring feat!  
The garlic sang—oh, bittersweet!  
His cape flew high, he gasped, aghast,  
His pallid cheeks went red, then past.

A puff of smoke, a choking sound,  
He leapt and twirled, then spun around.  
His fangs retreated, eyes went wide—  
“Curse this cursed pizza pie!”

Yet—strangely—Drac felt a glow within,  
A warmth he'd missed since who knows when.  
No thirst for blood, no haunting gloom,  
Just saucy joy and peppered bloom.

So if you visit Transylvania’s lair,  
And smell that garlic on the air—  
You’ll find the Count, released and free,  
With pizza, laughing—just like me!

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