THE GHOUL'S PARADE

When the bells toll midnight And Dark Things begin to roam, The old house shivers, and the Walls begin to moan. The rats stop their scurrying And everything is quiet; The moon rises, softly, As if in fright. The wind howls mournfully Through the skeleton trees, And the breath of corruption Is borne in on the breeze. The corpse in the cellar Mouths a slobbering curse; On those who have slit his throat, And robbed him of his purse. The maggots swarm in his rotten flesh, And he howls in mad despair; He shrieks and moans and rages And tears his gristly hair. He rages thus each night From midnight until one; And the maggots swarm and wiggle, And have their hellish fun.