To the Lord of the Dead

We pay our obeisance,

To the Lord of the Dead,

On this most unhallowed of days,

To twist in the black

With the souls gone before,

In the spirit of ancient of days,

At one end our birth

Will give way to our death,

And then once again we're reborn;

We shuffle our souls through the mist-shrouded murk,

And forever to darkness we're sworn.

And those who seek spirits those spirits shall find,

And those who rest soundly shall lie,

In grave-tattered cerements under the gloom,

Of a cold and remorseless grey sky.

And worms know no supper, no earthly repast,

Half as fulfilling as those,

Who crawl under crust of the crepitant earth

And seek solace...

Where the death rattle blows.