Spines that shiver in minds of old,
Gasping spinsters times have told,
Of little men the color of green,
Hidden by walls not to be seen,
Harvest the blood they call to me,
Take the drops of red is the fee,
Cast the amber sun to stop fast,
Murky waters a grave in the past,
Ignorant fellows lay down in cotton,
Thoughts hollow black and all rotten,
Death the gift that comes willing and able,
Remember dear ones this is no fable.