Tis nigh upon scales into scorpion
when th wicked wind doth cunt th land
and tell of secret gatherings in th night
Soon, Jack and his attendant band of knaves
will prance in our Lady’s court for th chance
that they might also become kings
Then will th nights come that wouldn’t change
when spirits walk and all saints hold their vigil
in th deepest caves of our origins as apes
Covens dance ‘round Samhain sure as push comes to shove
y la misma para los campesinos cuando es la Dia de los Muertos
th most ancient of rituals to maintain a semblance of primeval
Even though th hollow holiday trappings drape
in polyester profusion across th porches of America
still, underneath lurk half-remembered dire deeds
Quagmired vapors seep from th graves of the unrequited
creeping along avenues again open between dimensions
to accost and invade those who shun th masks of the ancestors
Now any who know me, may that number be few
will say that I am not inclined to arbitrarily skew predictions
or in a fit of rambunctiousness over-season th stew
So let those who have ears take heed when I say
th candy coated pandemonium that soon will ensue
does not hold a candle to a witches pot truly brewed