I'm such a quiet little ghost,
Demure and inoffensive;
The other spirits say I'm most
Absurdly apprehensive.
Through all the merry hours of night
I'm uniformly cheerful;
I love the dark, but in the light,
I own, I'm rather fearful.
Each dawn I cower down in bed,
In every brightness seeing
That weird, uncanny form of dread--
An awful Human Being!
Of course I'm told they can't exist,
That Nature would not let them;
But Willy Spook, the Humanist,
Declares that he has met them!
He says they do not glide like us,
But walk in eerie paces;
They're solid, not diaphanous,
With arms! and legs! and faces!!!
And some are beggars, some are kings,
Some have and some are wanting;
They squander time in doing things
Instead of simply haunting.
They talk of "art," the horrid crew,
And things they call "ambitions."--
Oh yes, I know as well as you
They're only superstitions.
But should the dreadful day arrive
When, starting up, I see one,
I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive;
And then--oh, then I'll be one!
