There’s the house, the fence is high
The iron cries a lonely sigh
A silent monster dwells inside
The traffic signs warn ‘run and hide!’
The streets are dirty, aren’t they?
He never swept them, so they say…
His hands are reaching for your head
Maybe tomorrow you’ll be dead!
See the glass on the roof, you do?
That rotting pigeon gives a clue…
A blinding moment when he strikes
The scream of children most he likes!
Alone you go, you mustn’t fear
The garden waits, we watch you, dear…
Your tongue twists once you pass the gate
The Prince is barking, don’t be late!
It happens when the full moon shines
He’s walking out to the trees and vines
And digging deep to Gaia’s breast
And placing there that tiny chest
This is real, not a fairy tale
Not sung to them girls, not for sale
He bears the branches’ cold embrace
The dark’s rich secrets veil his face
That chest you bring, such brave, young boy
(For cunning beasts an easy toy…)
When Earth slumbers its soft, dry dream
A dreadful landscape it might seem!
His witchcraft’s weak to spell-bind us
He boils his cauldron, makes that fuss
You heard those stories true and old
An attic’s madman he was called!
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