In the quiet town of Springwood, where the Elm trees sway,
A darkness lingers long after the ending of the day.
The picket fences stand in rows, the lawns are trimmed and neat,
But secrets rot like fallen fruit along each silent street.
The parents made a pact of fire to purge a local sin,
But never knew the nightmare world they’d let the monster in.
Fred Krueger was a man of flesh, a killer in the night,
Who snatched the children from their beds and filled them with affright.
They found him in the boiler room, where steam and shadows hiss,
And gave him to the hungry flames—a searing, final kiss.
But as his body turned to ash, a bargain was begun,
With Dream Demons who waited for the bastard, hundred-maniac son.
“One, two, Freddy’s coming for you,” the skipping children sing,
A nursery rhyme of jagged blades and the terror they will bring.
“Three, four, better lock your door,” the warning echoes clear,
For once you drift to slumber, you are held within his sphere.
He wears a fedora of dusty brown, a sweater striped in red,
With green that clashes violently, the colors of the dead.
His face is like a landscape carved by heat and molten stone,
A map of every agony his burning skin has known.
And on his hand, the masterpiece—a glove of leather and steel,
With razor-sharp blades for fingers, making every nightmare real.
“Five, six, grab your crucifix,” the rhythmic chant goes on,
But faith is thin as vapor when the morning light is gone.
He waits within the boiler room, the basement of the mind,
Where all the things you’ve tried to hide are easy things to find.
The pipes are sweating droplets, and the furnace glow is deep,
He’s the master of the shadows when you’ve fallen fast asleep.
He’ll taunt you with a wicked laugh and a darkly comic pun,
Before he starts the “slicing and the dicing” just for fun.
“Seven, eight, better stay up late,” the girls with jump ropes cry,
While caffeine pills and cold water are all that keep you dry.
He’ll turn your fears against you with a shapeshifter’s art,
Becoming what you dread the most to tear your world apart.
Whether a giant snake or a comic book “Super-Freddy” grand,
There is no escape from justice in his Dream Dimension land.
“Nine, ten, never sleep again,” the final verse is spun,
For once the blade has found its mark, the nightmare’s truly done.
He feeds upon the souls of children, gaining strength from every scream,
The gatekeeper of the subconscious, the monarch of the dream.
You can pull him to the waking world, to the cold and honest light,
But he’ll find a way to trickle back through the middle of the night.
For every town has an Elm Street, and every house a bed,
Where the Springwood Slasher waits to claim the voices in your head.
So drink another coffee cup and keep the lights on bright,
Because Freddy’s always waiting for the turning of the light.
