Under the Wolfing-moon
The iron gates screeched, as they were opened,
And ghastly shapes found their way across some graves.
An old hag, dressed in a hooded cloak
Cracked her whip and gave orders to her slaves.
Six ghosts bound in chains, groaning loudly,
Seven more were brides for the living dead,
The Hag gave her orders, “Start the digging!”
They were looking for some grooms, for to wed.
The Wolfing-moon turned a rancid shade of gray,
But on the graves, the color was seen as red.
“Dig faster” the hunch-back hag bellowed!
So many graves were giving up their dead.
“I need seven Grooms,” the Hag screeched aloud,
“I want new ones, with flesh clinging to the bone!”
“Find them fast, or you shall pay the piper.”
“Dig,” I said, “and find these brides a home.”
That’s what happens when the matchmaker does her magic
In any graveyard, beneath the Wolfing-moon.
The Hag will find her Zombie-bride’s desire,
And match each blushing bride with a groom, and tomb.
D. Thurmond
