On the 31st,
they start to crawl
Up from their graves
They're rotting, all.

They walk the streets
just for a while
Go find their victims
in that pile.

On the 31st,
the coffin creaks
White fangs flash,
and off he sneaks.

To pull them in
and rip their throats
They kick and twitch
like billy goats.

On the 31st,
the man will change
From something normal
to something strange.

A chilling howl
He runs on four
He's killing now
outside the door.

On the 31st,
the witches brew
They want a soul.
That soul is you.

They'll put to knife
your blood and heart
Dissecting you
Part by part.

On the 31st,
there rides the dead
He wears a pumpkin
Not a head.

Those who see him
never follow
When he returns
to Sleepy Hollow.

On the 31st,
just lock your door.
That sound you heard?
A ghoul for sure.

Light a candle,
and don't you scoff.
It's the 31st.
All bets are off.

--Vincent Spada