We were in the midst of the mossy oak
with some old bloke, my money was broke.
The moonlight tried to
guide us through but to no avail.
The man was pale even before we set sail.
We were the head and he was the tail
of the old coin no one
wanted to keep around their home; just in malls
Standing in the hall only knowin' how to stall
the onset of everything that's to fall.
The phone's always close to await the call
hopefully later than sooner.
His ghostly countenance eclipse
the cloud and moon, through the oak
one could never mistake sights of ghosts.