The Witching Hour approaches on swift and silent feet,
Its chilling chorus fills the air with chimes that drain all heat.
The ash-polluted blackened ice spreads through the wooded graves
And skeletons rise from below, none spared their empty gaze.
Cold January beckons me like scent of dry decay
And I grin widely, savoring the winter's bleak dismay.
A widespread fearful aura full of wrongness fills the night,
And hides me as I flicker, making nightmares with delight.