A ghost was limping down the street with a slow, unsteady tread,
his sheet was torn and hung in shreds and he felt like he was dead.
He’d partied hard throughout the night and now the drums were in his head;
“It’s nearly dawn,” he moaned aloud, “and I can’t find my bed!”
And then he met a weary witch whose face was redder than a beet;
she groaned with every step she took for the shoes were missing from her feet.
Her long black dress was full of dust as it dragged upon the street,
she changed direction as he passed and chased his tattered sheet.
A skeleton stood beside the curb and thought that it looked queer;
for he was sure he’d seen them both drinking spirits and full of cheer.
Supported by his wobbly legs, he watched them drawing near;
then fell in step behind the witch, still clutching his last beer.
The ghost kept going and he thought he must be half asleep,
for in the middle of the road there was a big untidy heap.
Dead or alive – no way to tell – so around it he did creep;
while those behind him tagged along, still following like sheep.
A zombie waited ’round the turn, wondering which way she should go;
her hair looked like a Kurly Kate, her face resembled week-old dough.
Arms and legs moved awkwardly and she was missing one big toe;
as they moved past she joined the line, but why she joined she did not know.
A vampire waited down the street with hidden fangs and cold, dark eyes,
his cape was black, the lining red, to trust this man would not be wise.
He eyed the necks of every one and let them pass with heavy sighs,
then went behind them – just because they did not question his disguise.
And so the ghost still travelled on till he saw the graveyard up ahead;
the drumming in his skull was loud, his bloodshot eyes were tired and red.
He looked at those who’d followed him and in a halting voice he said:
“Do what you like; I’m sleeping here for I can’t find my bed!”