Skeletons of souls,
We are in the mist,
Satan has devoured that flesh to the bones... Upon your bed you sleep in pain
for nightmares whirl within your brain.
You waken with a fearful start
as horror grips your heart. You sense a presence standing there,
then all at once it meets your stare.
It waits within your room
and with it dwells your doom... They’re coming to get you, do you know who?
They’re white and bony just like you.
Noisy, rattling, very thick.
They’re long and skinny just like a stick.
Under your bed you have to go.
The skeletons are coming, you know. But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed. There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
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