There is a time of year
When the spirits come out to play,
Let loose from their constant lair.
Their ghoulish acts are patiently at bay.
They long for little children,
Their chilling arms waiting to seize.
It appears to be illusion,
They way they move with each and every breeze.
There are myths of ghosts roaming these streets.
Though not a common occurrence,
I’ve heard they disguise themselves in sheets.
The streets are full of squealing
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