He lives in that old mansion on the corner of the street,
In the darkest of the shadows and his name we dare not speak,
His windows are all curtained in the blackest black of crepe,
And they say that all his suits are cut from undertakers' drape.
He is never seen in sunlight and only seldom by the moon,
He has shuttered up his windows and he hates the nights of June,
He a modern day Rip Van Winkle, a somnambulant Fred Astair,
And he sleeps on ostrich pillows in the blackness of his lair.
No children dare to play there and the birds don’t even sing,
He has shot the Jolly Postman and of sleepers he is king,
He is seen on stormy midnights on the rooftops with his kites,
And he sleeps the hours of daylight to facilitate his nights.
So do not wake the sleeper, walk by on tippy-toes,
For if he finds you he will kill you, no matter where you goes.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved