A mournful wail echoes in the haunted night,
A Fog covers the waxen moonlight.
Casting an eerie spell over the late hour,
Repressively daunting with an unholy power.
A gray mist hovers over the moor,
A vale of rain embraces the lore.
She the black-widowed banshee queen,
Taintimg the beguiled night unclean.
Her voice is said to draw men to their doom,
By the light of the bespelled full moon.
Whispers of her curse floats on the breeze,
While men like flies drop to her knees.
Their soul she covets with a selfish flair,
Tangled in her sinister cobweb of despair.
They say only true love can break the spell,
The poor souls collected for the prince of hell.
But alas it's only a vague rumor it seems,
For only happy-endings are for the one that dreams.