Under the arc of stained boards,
ancient goblins and warlords,
come out of the ground, not making a sound.
The smell of death is all around.
And the night when the cold wind blows,
no one cares, nobody knows.
Follow him to the sacred place.
This isn't a dream, I can't escape.
Molars and fangs, the clicking of bones,
spirits moaning among the tombstones.
And the night when the moon is bright,
someone cries, "Something ain't right!"
The moon is full, the air is still.
All of a sudden I feel a chill.
He is grinning, flesh rotting away.
Skeletons dance, I curse this day!
And the night when the wolves cry out,
listen close.... and you can hear me shout!
