At the stroke of midnight,
When sleep is at its height.

A ghoulish mist engulfs the town,
Bewitching even the Gothic Parish.
Marring its beauty with sinister a frown,
Ivied gates forbidding all that is nightmarish.

Its tall angels now grotesque gargoiles,
Tis when the witches own the sky.
Hidden by moonlight, for youth they toil,
Decades of immortality, watched with sharp an eye.

The towns square, a friendly place,
Now expressionless, a face.
Rings with its blurry past, haunting,
It's residents hiding, whence the hunting.

The witches doth confess,
The town's too quiet for us to obsess.

Begs the darkest one:
"Let us recess, to that dark cess,
Whence we came from.
Tis better to live a day hungry,
Than to be denied your place in history !!"