The spirits of the season, in time they are upon us,
ghouls and goblins with them, leak a greenish puss.
The grave stones creak and crumble,
as the ground shudders with a rumble.
The skeletons beneath, unhappy with their lot,
their arms thrust forth, steaming and to the touch quite hot.
The spiders having spun their webs in hopes of larger prey,
we are lucky if we pass them and survive another day.
Still no sighted sign of slithy toads,
though travel be unwise upon these very roads.
Ghastly cries of wailing banshees fill the evening air,
others move no longer, their oozing corpses line the stair.
Thick mists envelop us, venture forth we wouldn't dare,
for out there in darkness lies some other dank nightmare.
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