While wide awake, each Halloween
I hoped to see an eerie scene
Of ghouls and goblins 'neath my bed,
Some spooky thing without a head.
I'd scare myself with thoughts of doom
From creaking noises in my room.
Was that a bat that just flew by?
Do spiders crawl and banshees cry?
Such questions kept me up all night
And I confess I loved the fright.
But now I'm of an age where moans
And creaks result from painful bones.
I toss and turn to get some rest
And wish for youth when I was blest
With nightmares of a fiendish sort.
But they're no more, I must report.
And that is what I miss the most -
Not having at least, the chance of a ghost.
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