Musta woke with feelings of dread;
I bet that he thought he was dead.
Upon its unmasking,
The question I’m asking:
’Twas the ghost of white or wheat bread?
- by Jeff Kyser
I woke up to a funny noise, it went scrape, scrapity, scrape,
It did not sound like flesh or foul, like halibut or hake,
It was the ghost of Long Tom Mouse, a phantom rodent dark,
Who’s haunted every bungalow, from here to Duthie Park.
Some say he met a grisly end at the paws of an old tom cat,
While others say a carving knife sliced him here upon this mat,
But never mind, we have no time for hairy, scary, talks,
His spirit now it is abroad, he creeps, he creaks, he walks!
And on a silver moonlight night when owls do hoot and cry,
Please turn your face o’er to the wall as old Long Tom goes by,
Be sure to leave some cheese and curds, some token of respect,
Or else he’ll haunt your skirting boards when e’re you least suspect!
- Max Scratchamnn