The slamming door,
The picture falls,
The empty seat,
The ripples on a pool.
The shiver of passing cool,
A little movement in the corner of the eye,
They are out there when they die.

The missing keys,
The car lights on,
The Sunday paper when it's gone,
My favorite screwdriver disappeared,
Hammer and chisel lost I know its wierd,
Even in fading light,  
I can tell they have been passing here at night.

In the the sitting room too,
My  alcohol is being consumed,
A rowdy bunch without a doubt,
I guess they have been all about.
And then the bathroom loo
My aftershave is gone too
Can't be true
Isn't it true Ghosts don't shave ?

They have no lengthening whiskers,
No 6 o'clock shadow just a shade.
Even if they waxed their legs
For some spiritual tango on their pegs
They wouldn't use an aftershave glaze
Just some moonlight shadow mixed with cloudy greys.

In the late night when I cannot sleep,
I walk the house in bare feet,
And wonder when my boys became men,
Looking as the soundly sleep,
Its Saturday night they clearly reek,
Of Bourbon, aftershave and feet.
No wonder the Ghosts they leave them alone,
Is it just me they want to atone?