The corpse that walks,
its solemn line.
The vampire stalks,
finds blood to dine.
The werewolf howls
at the silver moon.
His human form
what's showing at noon.
The mummy's cries
of pain and loss.
His wraps that smell of must and moss.
The witch that flies,
upon her broom
casting curses
and spelling doom.
The black cat scurries,
hisses and claws
through the graveyard walks his paws,
Ian