A man walks these solemn streets,
tapping and rapping his cane,
and with him, the stench of death follows
on these dreary, weary streets.

His eyes shine against the dark
on these lonely, stony streets.
His smile sends shivers down your spine,
as your heartrate begins to climb
on these unholy, lowly streets.

Pulled from his overcoat, a blade shines
against the lights of these ugly, shady streets.
A sight that's gone as the streetlights flicker,
but not for long: He's walking quicker
on these now dangerous, deadly streets.

Out go the lights on these dark, desolate streets.
He hears you running; he'll always be coming
on these dreadful, hellful streets.