Harvest season's done and Summer's course

Is run, and Winter's creeping chilling force

Is touching fingers on the dying land.

And minutes timed by finest crystal-sand

Slide on - a curtain to the drama yet

To come…

Candle lighted pumpkins set

Amidst the tree and fir of eerie wood

Call up on the Spirits

Who laugh and cry

And scream! In dreamlike

Phantom tones

As shades of life bestir

Their ancient, whitened bones.

And thus:

The ghosts and bones that have lain long dead

Arise and jump as the moon turns red

They flit and flee their dismal ground

As they look for fearful men to hound.

They wail their way to quiet towns

Their burial shrouds their only gowns,

And woe betide the folk who walk

On this only eve when the spirits stalk

The blood that's red to match the moon.

Oh! Their voices shriek a horrid tune:

Blood! Meat! There's flesh to eat,

And pity the man we chance to meet.

Blood! Meat!

And

Pity the man we chance to meet…