Stranger, who art thou passing here
tonight? Hast thou no fear?
Come not to graveyards in the night
when the half-moon, pale and dim, gives light;
The witching moon ‘tis called, or horned,
once sacred to the Druids, adorned
in white, who called with darkest spell
fearsome demons out of hell,
and some of these are living yet!
In bone-yards like this they’re met
Hark – hear ye that crunch of tooth
and bone? They feast at night, in truth,
on corpses and sometimes fools
like you who come to see the ghouls.
Too bad my words ye proudly scorned
For surely ye were duly warned.
Nay, stop! ‘Tis too late to run
from ghouls, see? For I am one!