Vampire Moon (1)

On Bourbon Street in the vertical rain, In the dominance of shadowed domain, Where the swamp gas reeks of a distant death, Faint and remote like a dying breath, Steam rises up from the cobbled ground, And dreams misplaced are seldom found. The rats in the quarter bristle and dart, Conveyors of plague from an evil heart, And the legions of dead stay where fell, Whilst the ringing out of the handcart bell Sounds like a warning from far away, A signature tune for judgement day. As fog wreaths the streets like a living shroud, A vampire moon breaks through the cloud, And dogs with rib serrated skin Howl at the sky and the wailing wind; The lord of damnation stalks the night Eyes of blood lust burning bright. The cathouse sprawl lies silent, still, The whiskey bars no longer fill, The hulls of ships tied at the dock, Creak and groan and gently rock, And all the oil lamps cease to burn, They gutter out at his return. On Bourbon Street where walk the dead, Eyes of blood lust burning red, Comes something wicked, black and cold, Which human sight should not behold, With pallid face and razor-teeth And vampire moon to stalk beneath.